


Bring Me Back To Life

by yalublyutebya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - Historical, Depression, Drug Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Mild Gore, PTSD, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Prejudices, Slash, Violence, War, Withdrawal, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-09 05:15:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 51,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yalublyutebya/pseuds/yalublyutebya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being injured on the Front, John Watson is sent to Craiglockhart Hospital for psychiatric treatment and finds himself sharing a room with the mysterious Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This plot bunny has been prodding at me since re-reading 'Regeneration' late last year. No prior knowledge of the book should be needed to read this - I've only used the setting ([Craiglockhart Hospital](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Craiglockhart_Hydropathic)). 
> 
> Very much a WIP, so consider yourself warned :-)

John was sitting in his room reading when a knock at the door interrupted the silence. He'd been waiting most of the day for this, and had just been starting to think maybe he'd got the wrong day. He struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane, and straightened up just as the door opened to admit Major Bryce. 

"Hope we're not disturbing you, Captain Watson," Bryce said.

"N-not at all, sir," John answered quickly, eyes widening in surprise as Bryce stepped aside and beckoned to his companion, John's new roommate. John knew nothing about him, but he must be important if Bryce was escorting him personally to his room. 

"You'll be staying here, Lieutenant Holmes," Bryce told the stranger, just a hint of ice in his tone.

"You expect me to share a room?" Holmes scoffed in disbelief. "My brother-"

"If your brother can find a way to free up a room, please tell him to go ahead. We're almost at full capacity," Bryce said sharply. 

Holmes frowned but said no more and Bryce turned back towards John.

"Watson, this is Lieutenant Holmes."

John forced himself forward, step by agonising step under the scrutiny of both Bryce and Holmes, until he could offer his hand to his new roommate. "Pleased to meet you," he got out, resolutely ignoring the pain shooting up his leg.

Holmes shook his hand firmly, eyes flicking over him with unnerving intensity, and then stepped back.

"Am I allowed to leave the grounds?" Holmes asked, turning to Bryce.

"This isn't a prison."

"Is it not?" Holmes countered.

"No," Bryce answered sourly. "You may leave the grounds whenever you choose."

Holmes nodded absently and wandered further into the room, setting the small suitcase he had been carrying down on the second bed.

"I'll leave you to get settled then," Bryce announced. "I'm sure Watson can answer any questions you might have about life here at Craiglockhart."

Holmes showed no sign that he had even heard from his position at the window and Bryce shared a look with John, before leaving the room.

John shifted restlessly on his feet, waiting for Holmes to say something, anything, but nothing came. John shook his head and hobbled back to his bed, lowering himself down with a slight groan and stretching his leg out in front of him.

The room fell silent once more. John read a few pages further in his book, then paused to regard his new roommate. Holmes was still in full uniform, minus only his hat, which he clutched under his arm, and his dark hair was slicked back smartly, framing a proud face. He looked every bit the self-assured officer, and yet here he was.

John finally drew his eyes away from his silent roommate and went back to his book. Holmes may look calm and composed, but there was a reason he was here for treatment and it was sure to come out soon enough. John just hoped Holmes wasn't plagued by nightmares like so many here, because his sleep was disrupted enough by his own; if he had a roommate waking him up as well, he'd never sleep.

*

When John finally rose for dinner, Holmes had moved from the window to a nearby chair but no further, and still hadn't spoken another word. John washed his hands and face in the washbasin on the dresser and then turned towards Holmes.

"Dinner's in about five minutes. I can show you the way to the dining hall, if you'd like."

Holmes looked lost in thought and didn't react to John's voice.

"Holmes?"

Holmes blinked, and turned his head towards John with a frown. "What is it?" he snapped.

"D-dinner," John replied, hating himself for the stammer he could not repress as Holmes regarded him coolly.

"Not interested." 

Holmes turned away again, and John ground his teeth together before letting out a long breath and flexing his fingers around the handle of his cane. Lack of politeness wasn't a common symptom here at the hospital, but John was prepared to give his taciturn roommate the benefit of the doubt this time. After all, avoidance of food was something he'd seen in others and he knew when it was best not to push. 

John made his way down to the dining hall and settled on a table by himself. In the few weeks he'd been here, he hadn't much bothered socialising, but then no-one seemed particularly social here, between the shakers and the screamers and the fainters. John ate his dinner quickly and efficiently and then made his way out into the grounds. Evening was setting in fast and he crossed his arm across his chest in an attempt to protect him from the cold. His breath left a path of white cloud behind him as he huffed and puffed his way to the nearest bench and dropped onto it heavily.

Autumn was starting to turn into winter and the colder weather was doing John's leg no good. And yet, what right did he have to complain? Right now, good men - his men - were hunkered down in some godforsaken muddy hole in the middle of Belgium, wishing they could be at home with their loved ones. His hand threatened to start shaking and he clenched it tightly, hard enough for his nails to dig into the soft skin of his palm. It didn't get any easier, thinking about them out there, and him still at home after so many weeks. It had been fine right after the surgery through the ensuing infection, when he'd been so out of his mind on morphine he could have been in Outer Mongolia for all he knew, but as soon as reality had set in once more, and they'd sent him to Craiglockhart for psychiatric treatment when it looked like the limp and the tremor and the nightmares weren't going away, he'd struggled to accept his fate. 

Heaving a sigh, John dragged himself to his feet once more. It didn't do him any good to dwell on it and, anyway, he had plenty of opportunity to do that in his sessions with Dr. Worthing. He made his way slowly back to his room, and his statue of a roommate, and sat reading until he could fight tiredness no longer. He washed and changed for bed, and climbed in, turning off the lamp nearest his bed. The dim glow of the other lamp across the room illuminated the still figure of Holmes, bathing his profile in soft light as he stared out into the darkness. John rolled onto his back and closed his eyes, shoulders braced as if facing battle as he let sleep pull him under.

*

"What do we do, sir?" Smith asked, crawling across the crater to throw himself down next to John. 

"We wait until dark."

"But sir, the shells-"

"They won't be able to hit us or they'll risk hitting their own lines too," John said with more confidence than he felt.

Smith nodded his acquiescence and slithered back over to the other side of the crater to pass the message and help with the wounded. John couldn't bear to look at them - Donaldson had lost a leg and wasn't going to last much more than an hour, and Howarth looked all of his eighteen years as Smith and Benson tried their best to keep his intestines inside his abdomen. John had failed them, and now they were trapped in this pit in the middle of No Man's Land with no way back until darkness gave them enough cover to risk it. 

"What are we waiting for?" someone - probably Jackson - called out, obviously not having received the message from Smith. John rolled over, careful to keep his head below the top of the hole.

"We're sitting ducks," Jackson continued, his voice shrill. 

"No more so than if we took a run at the guns," Smith said sharply.

"We can't just wait," Jackson said, finally turning to look at John. "Sir, this is madness."

"We will wait," John said authoritatively. 

Jackson shook his head, obviously long past the point of reasoning. "I won't," he said firmly.

"Jackson, wait-" The words were barely out of John's mouth before Jackson sprung to his feet and dived over the edge of the hole. "Jackson!" 

A blast of machine gun fire echoed around them, followed by the kind of squeal that John knew all to well. John pulled his helmet down on his head, and got to a crouch.

"Sir, I don't think that's a good idea," Smith suggested in a hushed voice, reaching out for John's arm.

"It's a bit late for good ideas, Lieutenant."

After a quick glance over the parapet, John dived out into the open. He spotted Jackson immediately, sprawled only a few feet from the hole, hand pressed to his leg as he cursed. John rushed towards him and grabbed him, trying to get him to his feet as quickly as he could.

"Come on!" he shouted. "Move, move."

He should've realised the risk he was taking. He was in mid-crouch when the bullet hit him, ripping through his shoulder and sending him to the ground. His head was spinning as he stared up at the perfect blue sky, his shoulder on fire, the sound of Jackson's pitiful sobs filling his ears.

*

John woke with a jolt, his chest heaving, tears running down his cheeks. He laid there on his back, trapped in abject misery, trying to get his emotions under control, trying so hard to stay quiet.

A creak of bed springs a moment later confirmed his worst fear: he had woken his roommate. He didn't dare look over, and closed his eyes once more, breathing erratically through his nose, his hands fisted in the bedclothes. All he could see behind his eyelids was that beautiful clear sky, and it was surprisingly unhelpful. He took several deep breaths, fighting the tightness in his chest. 

For the first time that day, he was incredibly thankful that Holmes had apparently decided to completely ignore him. The thought of having a witness to his distress made him flush with shame, but Holmes was mercifully silent, even though John could practically hear him thinking from across the room. John rolled onto his side, taking some of the strain off his bad shoulder and hunching in on himself. He would struggle to get back to sleep tonight, but now that he had a roommate, he couldn't just get up and read to distract himself from memories of the Front.

Holmes's bed creaked again and John openly stared as Holmes rose from his bed, still fully dressed. Holmes didn't even glance at John as he pulled on his overcoat and crept over to the door, easing it open and peeking out into the hallway, before disappearing out of sight and pulling the door shut once more. John shook his head in disbelief and pushed himself to sitting, his breath finally evening out, the threat of a panic attack receding for now. 

He reached over to turn on the nearest lamp, the smell of kerosene filling the room as he picked up his book from the nightstand. A glance at the pocket watch next to his book told him it was nearly five. He wondered for a moment where Holmes was off to, but he sensed he was very unlikely to ever get information from the other man, so dismissed the thought and turned his attention to his book.

*

Holmes returned shortly before breakfast and threw himself down on his bed and promptly fell asleep. John ate breakfast alone, but was then cajoled into playing bowls out on the green with a few of the other men (two stammers and a shaker who was at a distinct disadvantage for their game). 

When John returned to the room to change his shirt, Holmes was lounging on his bed, smoking. John spared him a glance, and when Holmes caught him looking, he held out his cigarette tin.

"Would you like one?"

"N-no. Thank you," John said, surprised as much by the offer as by the fact Holmes had addressed him directly for the first time in over twelve hours. 

John changed as quickly as he could, then checked his pocket watch. It was almost time for his appointment with Dr. Worthing and much as he detested the sessions, he would not want to be late. He headed for the door, but Holmes's voice halted him halfway there.

"It’s psychosomatic."

"Excuse me?" John turned back towards his roommate. 

"Your limp. It’s psychosomatic."

John’s brow wrinkled in confusion.

"It means it’s a product of your own imagination," Holmes added.

"I know what it means," John said, his hand tightening around his cane. "But it’s not t-true. I was shot."

"In the shoulder." Holmes's eyes settled on him, making him shuffle nervously. "And yet, your leg clearly pains you. Although, not right now, I see, even though you’ve been standing for some time."

"I didn't know you were a doctor," John got out.

"I’m not."

"Then what-"

"I simply observed."

"What else have you observed about me?" John asked, stupidly curious. He’d met the man only the day before, and the majority of the time they had been in the same room Holmes had paid him hardly any attention.

"You were at Loos, Armentieres, and then Ypres. It was in the latter that you suffered the physical injuries which saw you sent home, and the mental ones which saw you sent here soon after."

Holmes paused for breath and gave him another cursory once-over. "You grew up in one of the Home Counties. Educated at Harrow, then Oxford. You have one brother, older, killed in the first year of the War." Holmes paused once more, and then turned away as he added: "And you’re worried that your parents are ashamed of you for being sent to a _loony bin_."

With that final comment, Holmes came to a halt and John could do little but gape. "How- There is n-no way you could know all that."

Holmes said nothing for some time, his eyes fixed on whatever it was outside that had suddenly captured his attention. "You’ll be late to your appointment if you don’t hurry," he eventually said.

John forcefully shook himself out of his daze and, with one last bewildered look at the back of Holmes’s head, turned slowly, his leg almost giving way when he took the first step, forcing him to lean more heavily on his cane. He shuffled down the hallway as quickly as he could and descended the stairs with some difficulty, finally reaching Dr. Worthing’s office with an aching leg and a light sweat. He couldn’t quite shake off the discomfort of being so thoroughly dissected by a man he barely knew.


	2. Chapter 2

"So, Watson," Dr. Worthing said, folding his hands in his lap. "Any improvement?"

Dr. Worthing had one of those soft voices that was probably meant to soothe, but which John simply found patronising. John slowly stretched his leg out in front of him, his fingers shifting on his cane.

"Not much," he answered.

"No panic attacks in the last week?" Worthing asked, regarding John over the top of his glasses.

"No."

"Well, that's good," he said, smiling.

John frowned.

"You disagree?" Worthing prompted.

"My leg isn't getting any better. Neither are the nightmares."

Worthing leaned forward in his chair, his expression softening with sympathy. "It hasn't been very long. I'm afraid you'll have to give it time." 

John let out a breath through his nose and nodded reluctantly. 

"Now, would you like to tell me about the most recent nightmare?"

When his session with Worthing was finally over, John felt drained, and he'd lost any appetite he might have built up during the game of bowls. It was always the same, every week. 

Upon returning to the room, he found Holmes hunched over the small writing table in his shirtsleeves, scribbling away frantically. He appeared to have gone back to ignoring John once more, so John settled into the chair by the window, staring out at the sky and mulling over his pointless appointment.

"Do nightmares wake you every night?"

John startled at the sound of Holmes's voice and turned to face him, his cheeks colouring. Holmes leaned back in his chair, studying John.

"N-not every night. I'm sorry to have disturbed you."

"I wasn't asleep," Holmes said dismissively. 

"Oh."

"I ask out of curiosity, not because I'm devoted to a sleep regime."

"It-it's not really polite to ask," John got out, having recovered his wits somewhat. 

Holmes gave him a half smile. "Politeness is a dreadful disease in our society."

John pressed his lips together in displeasure, but Holmes didn't appear to notice.

"And the stammer, it comes and goes?" he asked with interest.

John flushed, torn between anger, embarrassment, and bewilderment. "I'd r-rather not discuss it, thank you."

Holmes gave a scoff. "Very well. I'm sure I'll deduce the answers soon enough if we're to be living in such close quarters."

"You'll deduce the answers," John repeated with a frown of confusion.

"Yes."

John regarded him with curiosity. "What is it you do, Holmes? What is it you did, rather, before the War?"

Holmes lifted his chin, bright eyes fixed on John. "I'm a detective."

"I see. With the Police?"

"No."

"Oh." 

"I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world," Holmes declared proudly.

"What's a consulting detective?" John asked, his interest piqued.

"I work independently, but I have been known to assist the Police when they've found themselves rather out of their depth."

"And what exactly do you do?" John asked, sitting forward.

"I observe. And from what I observe, I deduce the pertinent facts, and solve the case."

John raised an eyebrow.

"You don't believe me?" Holmes pressed, the corners of his mouth turning down. "How do you suppose I knew so much about you?"

"I don't know. Perhaps you were told before arriving."

"Wrong!" Holmes declared. "I observed it. I observed you."

Holmes jumped to his feet, looming over John. "Your military career thus far was easy enough. You're obviously an experienced soldier - a career soldier, in fact - you would have been deployed to the key battles. And it was your boots which allowed me to narrow your last posting down to Ypres."

"My boots?" 

"Yes. The fields around Ypres have a very distinct sort of mud, don't you think?"

"I'm not sure I've noticed," John returned with amusement. 

"Well, you may take my word for it. The consistency-"

"You've been to Ypres, have you?" John cut in, stopping Holmes mid-flow and earning himself a look of mild annoyance.

"Of course," Holmes answered, eyes narrowing on John for a moment before his voice dropped into a lower register. "You weren't sure if I'd seen active service."

"I meant no offence. I thought perhaps you were working behind the lines."

"Why would you think that?" he asked, but continued a moment later without waiting for an answer, "Ah, the way Major Bryce treated me."

"Yes," John allowed.

"You think perhaps I have connections that might allow me to forgo duty on the front lines and serve my country at a desk somewhere? Connections that might make Major Bryce treat me more favourably, even whilst despising me?"

"No, no-"

"Good observation, completely the wrong conclusion," Holmes stated, looking quite pleased. 

"Then you _were_ at the Front?"

"Yes. Dull, tedious." John raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Now, where was I? Oh yes, your background."

John nodded his head numbly, sensing that nothing was going to stop Holmes now, and in any case, interested in hearing what he had to say.

"All quite straightforward, really," Holmes started, waving a hand eloquently. "You're an educated man, and your accent tells me you spent most of your early life in the vicinity of London. Harrow, of course."

"Of course?"

"You don't have the air of an Eton man."

"Oh no? Not arrogant enough?" John teased, suspecting that Holmes himself was an Eton alumnus.

Holmes smiled. "Something like that. Now, your brother."

John tensed.

"There's your pocket watch, for starters. Clearly inherited, but new enough to suggest it came from someone of the same generation. There's also a picture of a man with a similar bearing to yourself tucked into your book. The picture's a few years old, the man's in uniform, evidently just signed up. Why would you be carrying around a picture of your soldier brother, if not because he was dead? Yet, you don't take particular care with it, or it wouldn't be in your book. It's likely some time has passed since his death, and you've had time to come to terms with it - or you've seen too many dead men to dwell on only one."

Holmes came to a halt and John sat there staring at him for several moments afterwards.

"That was... incredible," he finally got out in amazement.

"You think so?" Holmes asked, a hint of surprise in his voice.

"I do."

Holmes shuffled awkwardly, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Well... thank you," he said hesitantly.

"And you can do that for anyone?"

"Yes."

John huffed in astonishment, shaking his head. "Amazing."

"That's not what most people say."

"No, I can imagine," John said with a smile. He'd just had his history laid out on a platter, but any anger he might have felt at the start was long gone. He found himself simply more intrigued by his mysterious roommate.

Holmes considered him for a moment, head tilted to one side, before speaking up.

"Would you like to take a turn around the grounds?"

John's heart dropped to his stomach, and he cleared his throat. "I wouldn't want to slow you down, Holmes," he said with a self-deprecating smile and a nod towards his leg.

"Nonsense," Holmes returned, taking his jacket from the back of the chair and shrugging it on. "And it's Sherlock."

Sherlock loomed over him expectantly, until John finally gave in and pushed himself to his feet. "John."

Sherlock gave him a fleeting smile, before turning towards the door. "Jolly good. Shall we?" 

*

They were some way from the building, following one of the more overgrown paths, and Sherlock had barely stopped talking for more than a minute.

"Of course, the solution was simple," Sherlock said at the end of a convoluted story about a damaged coronet.

"It was?" John said, only half listening as he stepped carefully over a tree root. He looked up to find Holmes waiting patiently and flushed with embarrassment, but Holmes made nothing of it, continuing on along the path.

"Yes, perfectly simple. It was Mr. Holder's niece. A deluded young girl in league with a notorious criminal."

"But his son was prepared to take the blame himself?" John said, shaking his head in disbelief.

"He believed himself in love," Sherlock scoffed.

"Poor man," John commented.

Sherlock gave him an odd look, but then moved on. 

"So, what happened?" John asked.

"Oh, they fled to the Continent," Sherlock explained with a hint of dissatisfaction. "War broke out only a few weeks later, so I don't know what became of them."

John frowned, but he had long ago run out of sympathy for the people caught up in this awful war. They fell silent, their footsteps echoing around the trees, interspersed with the regular tap-tap of John's cane.

John took his eyes off the path for just a moment to look to his companion, and immediately regretted it when his foot landed uncomfortably on a large branch, causing him to stumble forward and land heavily on his bad leg, which threatened to give way underneath him. He managed to catch himself on a tree in time, and seconds later a firm grip on his upper arm provided further stability.

"Th-thank you," he got out through his teeth, pushing himself awkwardly back to his feet. Sherlock lingered for a few seconds longer, then released his arm and stepped back. 

"I think I'd better be heading back," John admitted, annoyed with his own weakness.

Sherlock glanced at his pocket watch and nodded. "Of course."

Sherlock somehow found a shortcut back to the building and they were back in no time, although pain was arcing through John's leg with every step. The sight of their door was a more than welcome sight and Sherlock waved him ahead as they drew close. John opened the door and stepped in, but froze as soon as he spotted Major Bryce waiting in the middle of their room.

Bryce turned to them as they entered, his gaze bypassing John to settle on Sherlock with vague annoyance. "There you are, Holmes."

John hobbled over to his bed and dropped down onto it with a barely-repressed groan, but he might as well have been invisible for all the attention the two other men paid him.

"I'll assume it just slipped your mind that you had an appointment with Dr. Brock an hour ago," Bryce said archly.

Sherlock wandered over to the desk, perching on the edge. "Not at all."

Bryce let out an audible sigh.

"If you are not going to cooperate-"

"You and I both know I do not require treatment," Sherlock cut in sharply, arms folded across his chest.

"You are here for treatment, and treatment is what you shall I have."

"And if I refuse?"

"If you refuse, I will have to ask your brother to find you a place somewhere more appropriate," Bryce said, a hard edge leaking into his voice.

Sherlock glared at Bryce, but said nothing, and after a moment, Bryce nodded. "Just as I thought. I will arrange a new appointment for you, which you _will_ attend. Is that clear?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered grudgingly. 

"Good." Bryce nodded once more, before turning towards John. "Good afternoon, Watson." He returned his attention to Sherlock. "Holmes."

Bryce left, the door clicking closed behind him. John looked over at his roommate, but Sherlock was staring doggedly at the floor - in fact, John thought he looked, if anything, like a child who had been chastised after a temper tantrum. 

"Did you purposefully suggest a walk so you could miss your appointment?" John asked.

Sherlock raised his head. "Yes. Is that a problem?"

"No, not really. You could've told me though."

"Could I?" Sherlock said. "I assumed you'd report me."

"There are plenty of men with a strong objection to being here. To treatment. I'm sure you have your reasons."

"I don't _need_ treatment," Sherlock insisted.

John hadn't know Sherlock long enough to be able to tell if his denial was that of a man too proud to admit to a fault, or if there was something else going on.

"So, why are you here?" John couldn't help asking. 

Sherlock's expression shut down instantly, wiped clean of any emotion. "It doesn't matter." 

"No," John said easily. "I suppose not."

Sherlock gave him a piercing look, and John tried not to fidget under the weight of that heavy gaze. 

"Okay," Sherlock finally said softly, and John felt like he might have passed some sort of test.

*

"Dinner?"

John looked up from his book to find Sherlock standing at the end of his bed.

"Oh. I... I'm not really hungry."

"Neither am I," Sherlock said. "But I like to have company when I go out."

John was familiar with the kind of company to be found at Craiglockhart and he simply couldn't imagine Sherlock getting along with any of their fellow patients. For whatever reason, Sherlock appeared to have taken a shine to John, and John - lonely and miserable as he was - wasn't going to reject him. 

"Alright then."

"Good."

Sherlock waited as John readied himself, and then they headed down to the dining room, Sherlock deliberately slowing his stride to match John's in a manner that John found both annoying and touching. 

The dining room was filled with men, thick with the smell of stew and sweat and the sounds of halting conversation. John and Sherlock found two empty seats in one of the far corners, but there was no chance of a free table and they were forced to share with a man named Anderson who John had spoken to once before.

"Anderson," John greeted him.

"W-W-Watson. H-h-hello."

Anderson was one of the worst stammerers in the hospital, and John couldn't help feeling for him every time he opened his mouth. 

"This is Sherlock Holmes," John said, gesturing to his companion.

"H-hello."

"Hello," Sherlock said stiffly, taking a seat.

Now that his dinner was in front of him, John's appetite had returned somewhat and he tucked in hungrily. Sherlock ate the odd mouthful now and again, but he seemed far too busy watching the other diners. Something in his eyes, something familiar in the way he scanned this man or that, made John think he was cataloguing them in much the same way he had done John.

"How are you doing?" John asked a while later.

"Hmm?" Sherlock murmured, turning his attention to John.

"With deducing them all," John prompted with a slight smile.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in surprise, but then heaved an affected sigh. "They're all frightfully dull, I'm afraid. Hardly worth the effort."

"Well, I suppose there isn't a huge amount of variety to be found in men of a similar age and status."

"No," Sherlock agreed. "I find the non-commissioned men much more interesting, in general. Or the men who have been promoted above their station." 

John didn't think he imagined the darting glance to the opposite side of the table where Anderson sat, and when he dared to look, he found Anderson staring at Sherlock with a mixture of bewilderment and outrage. Anderson opened his mouth to speak but seemed to think better of it a second later, instead pushing himself pointedly to his feet and leaving them.

John turned back to find Sherlock looking across the room again, his features a study in boredom.

"That was hardly necessary," John commented under his breath, and Sherlock's eyes snapped to his.

"Neurasthenia brought on by an unfortunate experience with a grenade is no reason to treat him any differently," Sherlock said. "I know the type well. Lazy, incompetent, nasty."

"You barely saw the man for five minutes," John protested.

"Quite long enough."

John found himself staring at his companion, wondering how he could vacillate so constantly between obnoxious and, well, normal. John had never met anyone like Sherlock Holmes, that was for sure.

"I've offended you," Sherlock finally said, breaking the silence.

"N-no. Not unless you're suggesting I've been promoted above my station?"

"Of course not. You seem more than qualified, Captain," Sherlock remarked, throwing a sidelong look at John. 

"Not anymore," John said bitterly, stabbing his fork into his food.

There was a moment of silence, and then Sherlock spoke up in a low voice. "You're worried you won't be able to go back."

John scanned the tables nearby, taking in the number of people within earshot. "I don't want to talk about it."

He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him, but the moment passed and Sherlock went back to picking halfheartedly at his food. 

A shadow fell over their table a few moments later and John looked up to find the slight figure of James Thompson eyeing their table significantly. Thompson was one of the hospital's two mutes, his silence even more excruciating than the stammers and twitches of his fellow soldiers. He couldn't have been more than twenty-two, his young face still so expressive despite his inability to speak.

"Please," John said, waving to the vacant chair opposite him. "Sit down."

Thompson gave him a hesitant smile and sat down, before digging into his food enthusiastically. 

Thompson's presence was like a void, swallowing all the words John wanted to say and leaving him with a dry mouth. He didn't much feel like eating any more, either.

After an awkward five minutes, Sherlock turned to John. "I'm done. You?"

"Yes."

Sherlock stood up quickly, snatching up John's plate as well as his own and carrying them over to the kitchen. John shared a look with Thompson, who smiled in return, and struggled to his feet. Sherlock returned just as John was steadying himself on his cane, and nodded briefly at Thompson before making for the door.

"Goodnight, Thompson," John said, and the young man nodded, his smile heartbreakingly bright.

John dragged himself painfully up the stairs behind Sherlock, his heart in his throat. It was times like these when he wished he hadn't survived to carry on in a world that offered up its young men to this hell.

Sherlock bounded into their room, and John trudged in afterwards, closing the door behind him. When he turned, Sherlock was watching him with bright eyes, his features illuminated with excitement.

"Mutism caused by trauma, how fascinating. I wonder-"

"No," John snapped. His left hand was trembling, and he balled it into a fist. "No," he repeated in a hoarse voice. 

Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise.

"I don't want to hear your theories," John got out. "I don't - How can you look at a boy like that and still..."

John trailed off and shook his head. "I apologise," he said stiffly. "I need to rest. I'm tired."

Sherlock remained silent as John limped over to the washbasin. John washed his hands and face, and stripped off his clothes, replacing them with his pyjamas. When he finally crawled into bed, Sherlock was just pulling on a coat.

"I'll bid you goodnight," Sherlock said awkwardly.

"Goodnight."

Sherlock left the room and John let out a sigh as he lay back in bed, contemplating the ceiling. He wondered for a moment where Sherlock had disappeared to for the last two nights, but then more melancholy thoughts crept in and accompanied him into a restless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Case plot shamelessly 'borrowed' from [The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Adventure_of_the_Beryl_Coronet).


	3. Chapter 3

The sun was just coming up as John sat at the writing table, staring blindly at the blank paper in front of him. He had promised to write to his mother as often as he could, and was already falling behind on that promise. What was there to tell her though? He lived his life in a half-awake state, dragging himself around the hospital by day, waiting and dreading the coming night. He had made no great efforts to form attachments here, and until Sherlock had arrived two days ago, John had hardly spent more than an hour with another person.

He glanced over at Sherlock's empty bed. Sherlock had yet to return from wherever it was he'd disappeared to the night before, but given this was the second night in a row, John suspected this was normal behaviour, so wasn't going to worry just yet. He turned back to the table and put reluctant pen to paper.

_Mother,_

_I hope you and Father are both well, and that the weather down there in Surrey has not turned cold just yet. It is surprisingly mild here, given the location. I had expected Scotland to be much colder at this time of year after the stories you used to tell me as a boy._

He had to swallow around a lump in his throat as he tried to banish the memories of winters curled up by the fire, listening to his mother tell stories of her youth in the Highlands. He had experienced only brief bouts of homesickness on the Front, much like he suspected every man did, and he was damned if he was going to let it overwhelm him when he was in the same country. 

_Thank you very much for the jam,_ he continued. _I enjoyed it very much._

It was a lie - the jar of homemade jam still sat unopened in his bedside cupboard - but he didn't have the heart to tell his mother that he couldn't bring himself to eat it, both through lack of appetite and that same wretched homesickness.

_I have been keeping myself busy, playing bowls and walking in the grounds. I am also planning to write a little something for the hospital's magazine, and I will be sure to send you a copy if it's published._

Dr. Worthing had suggested he write an article or poem for _The Hydra_ , certain that it would help his rehabilitation, but John had yet to find the inspiration to write.

_You may be interested to hear that I am now sharing a room with a young man named Holmes. He was a detective before the War, and seems frightfully intelligent._

As if John's words had summoned him, the door suddenly flew open and Sherlock appeared. He hesitated momentarily when he spotted John at the desk, but then carried on towards his bed.

"Good morning," John got out stiffly.

"Good morning," Sherlock answered as he threw his coat on the floor and sat down on his bed. He pulled off his boots and stowed them under the bed, before lying down, his hands tucked behind his head, obviously preparing to sleep.

Hoping to dispel the awkward tension still hanging over them from his own outburst the night before, John spoke up. "I didn't realise you were nocturnal," he commented in an attempt at lightness.

Sherlock tilted his head towards John. "I prefer not to sleep at all, if I can help it."

"I think I agree with you on that," John said with a faint smile.

Sherlock's eyes tracked over him quickly. "You only woke up once in the night," he commented.

"Yes. How did you-"

"Obvious," Sherlock interjected, a half smile softening the abruptness of the interruption. John shook his head in disbelief.

After a short pause, Sherlock spoke up again. "I was thinking of heading into the city later, if you'd like to join me."

John hesitated just long enough for Sherlock to give him a piercing look. "Problem?"

The mere thought of the crowds of people on the streets made his stomach turn, but he couldn't bear to admit to it in front of Sherlock. 

"N-no. I-I'd like that," he forced out. The fresh air and time away from the hospital would do him good, and it really was time he tried to face the world outside.

Sherlock stared at him a moment longer, then turned away, closing his eyes. The room went quiet again as Sherlock's breaths evened out in sleep and John turned back to the desk. His left hand was trembling violently, hard enough to make writing impossible, and he balled it into a fist, pressing it into the wood of the table to try to bring it back under control. 

*

John should have guessed that Sherlock, who had proved so eccentric already, would not care to take in the sights of the city like other visitors to Scotland's capital. In fact, Sherlock seemed determined to stay as far away from the crowds as possible as he led John through a series of narrow streets and alleyways. John was relieved, and did his best to keep up with Sherlock's pace, his cane tapping against the cobbled paths.

In the shadows of Edinburgh's alleys, John barely noticed the armband which had seemed so prominent on the bus, marking him out as different. He had kept his eyes on the floor for the whole journey, well aware of the pitying, sympathetic looks that were sent his way. Sherlock, of course, had removed his armband the moment they passed the main gate, and this prompted a whole different kind of look from their fellow passengers, who no doubt thought him just a regular soldier on furlough - visiting his crippled friend, perhaps. If Sherlock noticed the admiring looks - and some of the younger women weren't exactly subtle in their admiration - he showed no sign of it, spending the journey with his eyes blindly fixed on the passing scenery.

They'd hopped off the bus with everyone else, and before John had even had time to start to panic, Sherlock had led him away into an empty side road. They'd been walking for fifteen minutes, and if Sherlock had an intended destination, he didn't let John in on what it was. They rounded a corner into a quiet side street, and Sherlock suddenly came to a halt, turning back towards John.

"Are you hungry?"

They'd left right before lunch, but John hadn't paid any attention to the faint rumbling in his stomach until now. 

"A bit," John said.

Sherlock nodded and proceeded a little bit further down the street to a doorway with a small plaque next to it, which read: _Angelo's_. Sherlock threw open the door and John followed him, huffing in surprise when a small, empty, but clean-looking cafe was revealed. A large man standing by a makeshift bar looked over when they entered and broke into a grin, rushing over to shake Sherlock's hand enthusiastically.

"Mr. Holmes, well I never!" He had just a hint of an accent, most notable in the missing 'h' in Holmes. "What are you doing here?"

"Just visiting the area," Sherlock replied, smiling. "Angelo, this is John Watson. John, this is Angelo."

Angelo shook John's hand just as enthusiastically, pressing his free hand over their clasped ones.

"Sit down, sit down both of you, please," Angelo said warmly, gesturing to the nearest table. "Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?"

"What do you recommend?" Sherlock asked, taking a seat. John sat down opposite him, the blustery good humour of the Italian improving his mood already.

"Oh, I've got something you'll really like, Mr. Holmes, Mr. Watson. You leave it to me." Angelo grinned, then turned to call to a teenaged boy perched by one of the cafe's only windows. "Gio, va prendere il vino rosso."

The boy sulked off into a back room and Angelo followed quickly after, leaving them alone in the empty cafe. John turned to Sherlock with a searching look.

"Friend of yours?" he asked.

"Old client," Sherlock explained, slouching in his chair and pulling out a cigarette tin. He waved it in John's direction, and John shook his head, waiting patiently while Sherlock retrieved a thin cigarette and lit it, inhaling deeply and letting out a stream of smoke. His face softened somewhat with pleasure, and he turned his attention back to John.

"I proved that Angelo was innocent of the murder of a certain Lady Agnes Grey. Namely, because I had very good evidence that Angelo was committing burglary on the other side of London at the time."

"What was your evidence?" John asked, intrigued.

"I happened to be breaking into the same house at the same time," Sherlock concluded with a pleased smile, before taking another drag on his cigarette.

John laughed despite himself. "Why on earth were you doing that?"

"I was retrieving some rather incriminating papers for a client."

John shook his head. "So, you cleared his name, but what about your own?"

A shadow passed over Sherlock's expression, and he turned his face to one side. "The same connections you deduced yesterday were sufficient," he said sourly.

John wanted to press further, but he suspected he wouldn't get anywhere, and in any case, the boy - Gio - appeared at their table with an open bottle of wine, and they sat in silence while he poured a glass for both of them before disappearing once more. John sipped at his drink, savouring the rich taste.

"I can't remember the last time I had wine," John mused.

Sherlock hummed in agreement. "It certainly beats that foul substance masquerading as rum."

John thought of rum shared with his men on a cold winter's morning, firing them up for another day, and the weak smile he aimed at Sherlock was tight around the edges. Would he ever be back there again? A sullen sort of silence fell over them, John's face creasing into an involuntary frown as the memories threatened to suck him back in. Meanwhile, Sherlock continued to smoke with all the casual elegance of a man used to finer dining than this. 

Angelo reappeared some time later, breaking in upon their silence with a friendly warmth that belied his country of origin more than his accent. "Here you go, gentlemen."

He placed two plates of steaming food in front of them and retired with a flourish. "Enjoy."

John wasn't sure what the meal was, but it certainly looked better than anything he'd eaten in years. He tucked in, wolfing down a large mouthful of meat and rich, tomatoey sauce. He let out a groan of satisfaction and looked up to find Sherlock watching him with amusement. He paused, self-conscious, and Sherlock gave a wave.

"Please, carry on," Sherlock said with a smile, scooping up a delicate forkful of his own.

It was sublime and John finished his far too soon, gorging himself on food that tasted a hundred times better than anything from Craiglockhart's canteen. Sherlock ate about half of his before abandoning it for a second cigarette and when he caught John throwing shy, hungry looks across the table, he slid his plate towards John.

"Oh no, I couldn't possibly-"

"John," Sherlock interrupted. "Please, go ahead."

John hesitated a moment longer, then drew Sherlock's plate closer. He was a few mouthfuls in when Angelo returned.

"Did you like it?" Angelo asked. John could only nod vigorously, and Sherlock smiled softly. 

"Delicious," Sherlock said, and Angelo beamed. "You've definitely found your true calling, Angelo."

"Thanks to you, Mr. Holmes. Thanks to you."

Sherlock bowed his head graciously. 

"Can I get you any more wine?" Angelo asked.

"No, thank you," Sherlock said. "We wouldn't want to get in too much trouble with our superior officers."

Angelo tapped his nose and gave them an exaggerated wink. "I understand." 

John finished his food with a contented sigh, wiping his mouth. "Lovely," he said to Angelo.

"Excellent," Angelo returned. "Would you like some dessert as well?" 

John was tempted, but Sherlock cut in. "I'm afraid we'll have to be on our way, Angelo."

"No problem, no problem at all. I'm so glad you could come."

Sherlock reached into his inside pocket with the obvious intention of retrieving his money purse, but Angelo stopped him with a vigorous shake of his head. "No charge for you, Mr. Holmes."

"You're too kind."

They left not long afterwards, Angelo biding them both a hearty farewell and asking them to come again soon. His friendliness left John buoyed up and content to wander into the more populated areas, ignoring the looks that were thrown in his direction. 

Sherlock himself seemed more relaxed now too, adopting a more meandering pace as he guided them towards the Royal Mile. 

"Where are we going?" John asked eventually.

"To the Castle."

"Fancy a spot of sightseeing?" John teased.

Sherlock smiled. "We're going to meet someone."

"Who?"

"You'll see," Sherlock said, deliberately cryptic, his eyes flashing with amusement. 

John shrugged and they carried on up the hill towards the castle, looming high over the city. They stopped eventually in the huge stone arch at the entrance and John took a moment to lean against the wall and rest his leg. Sherlock was twitching with nervous energy, on the lookout.

Finally, some minutes later, an older man (of course, every man under the age of 42 was overseas) approached the entrance, and Sherlock pounced.

"Detective Inspector Morrison, Sherlock Holmes."

The man looked startled as Sherlock presented his hand, and shook it carefully.

"Mr. Holmes," Morrison said. "Nice to meet you. Lestrade's told me all about you."

"Good. Then you are aware of what I can do, and how I can be of assistance."

Morrison gave Sherlock an assessing look. "I was given to understand you were currently undergoing treatment," he said slowly, his eyes flicking to John's armband and away again.

"That makes no difference."

Morrison pursed his lips. "I cannot have any investigation brought into question by the mental health of those involved."

John frowned and Sherlock gritted his teeth, his hands flexing restlessly by his sides. "My mental health is fine," Sherlock insisted quietly. 

"Yes, I've heard about the circumstances which brought you to Edinburgh, Mr. Holmes," Morrison answered dryly, and Sherlock paled. "Did you think I wouldn't want to discover why Sherlock Holmes was offering his services to me when he should have been at the Front?"

"I can help you."

"I'm afraid I can't risk it," Morrison said. "Lestrade may be willing to put his career on the line for you, but I am not. I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes."

"You don't understand," Sherlock said, taking a step forward, frustration evident in his voice.

"I very much do," Morrison said sharply. "Your business is your own, Mr. Holmes, but I do not wish to see mine suffer at the expense of an addict's whims."

Sherlock recoiled as if hit, and Morrison looked them both over, before tipping his hat. "Good day to you both."

Stunned and confused, John did not know what to say. He pushed himself upright and stepped towards Sherlock, who had one hand pressed to his lips even as he stared out into the middle distance. 

"Sherlock-"

"Don't," Sherlock snapped. "Let's return."

Sherlock turned and started to make his way back through the courtyard, John struggling to keep up, his head spinning with this new information. They reached the bus stop in a matter of minutes and rode back to Craiglockhart in silence. 

Once back in the grounds, Sherlock stormed off towards the woods, leaving John to hobble back to their room alone. He pottered around restlessly for a while, and finally settled in the chair by the window, watching the darkening skies with a frown as his mind buzzed with questions.

*

Sherlock returned a couple of hours after dark and threw himself down on his bed, his face turned away from John, who sat on his own bed, reading. A few seconds ticked by in silence, and then Sherlock spoke up.

"Go on then," he snarled.

"Excuse me?" John asked, setting down his book.

"I'm sure you have some sort of snide remark to make."

"Why would you think that?" John said calmly.

Sherlock sat up, eyes shining in the half-light cast over the room by the single lamp. "Don't be an idiot," Sherlock said angrily. "Say what you have to say and be done with it."

John paused for a moment, head tilted to one side, then spoke up. "Thank you for today."

"What?" Sherlock got out, clearly surprised.

"I w-wasn't sure I'd be able to cope. With the crowds. With being out. So, thank you for forcing me to stop being a weak fool."

Sherlock gaped. "That's all you have to say?"

"Yes."

Sherlock let out a frustrated growl. "You're being deliberately obtuse. I know you're desperately curious about Inspector Morrison's remarks - of course you are, you're just like everyone else." Sherlock scoffed bitterly. "So simple and so caught up in your own life."

"I don't p-plan on being your punching bag, Sherlock," John forced out, surprising the both of them. "You're upset, clearly, but there's no need to-to insult me to make yourself feel better."

Sherlock raised one eyebrow, examining him carefully. "Well, look here, John Watson does have a spine after all."

John bristled, but straightened under Sherlock's gaze, anger crackling in his veins. "And Sherlock Holmes _does_ have a problem, just like everyone else in this goddamn hospital!"

The room descended into tense silence, but John would not take the words back, even with Sherlock's eyes boring into him.

"Do you want to know why I'm here, John?" Sherlock asked quietly, dangerously.

"I don't care why you're here," he cried. "But stop acting like you're better than the rest of us. Like it's beneath you to be here w-with _crazy people_." His voice cracked on the last words and he squared his jaw, swallowing hard.

Sherlock regarded him for a moment. "I don't think you're crazy, John," he finally said seriously. "In fact, I think you might just be the most sane person I know."

"Oh God," John choked out helplessly, inappropriate laughter colouring his voice. "Don't say that or there's no hope for any of us."

Sherlock huffed out a laugh, a low rumble of sound, and John was helpless to stop his own giggle. Then they were both laughing, struggling to stay quiet, hands pressed over mouths. John felt lightheaded, slightly dizzy, even as he pressed his other hand to his aching ribs. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed like this.

They finally calmed down and John wiped a hand over his eyes. Sherlock shuffled on his bed, then cleared his throat.

"I apologise for any offence-"

"No, it's fine, really," John said, meeting Sherlock's eyes across the room. "It's all fine."

Sherlock nodded, part acknowledgment, part gratitude, and got to his feet.

"Cigarette?" he asked, pulling the tin from his jacket.

"Go on then," John said.

Before he could move, Sherlock crossed the room and sat down next to him, handing him a cigarette and tucking his own between his lips, before lighting them both. John breathed in deeply, and let it out again with a sigh. He should have guessed Sherlock was smoking something of much better quality than what was usually handed out around the trenches. Sherlock blew out a cloud of smoke into the room, unmoving from his position next to John.

"Thank you," he murmured, just loud enough for John to hear, his gaze resolutely fixed in front of him.

John glanced at him, then turned his gaze away as well. "You're welcome."

They fell into a companionable silence, watching the night sky through the window as smoke swirled around them. John was reminded of the nights when he would look up at the stars from the trenches, that same kind of calm brought on by a chance to relax after a stressful day, a moment of peace to ponder on the world. He took another drag on his cigarette and let the smoke trickle past his lips as he tipped his head to the ceiling and smiled softly.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with added beta-ey goodness from lady_t_220

The next day, Sherlock grudgingly attended his first appointment with Dr. Brock, and returned in a foul mood that made the room feel far too small. 

"What a simpleton!" Sherlock shouted in John's general direction. "I've always had some respect for the field of psychology, weak as it is, but not anymore."

He groaned and paced by the window. John watched on in veiled amusement from the desk, his scribbled first attempts at poetry hastily hidden under several other sheets of paper upon Sherlock's return.

"The man clearly has no idea what he's doing."

"I heard he was quite good," John interjected, and Sherlock scoffed in reply. In all fairness, Brock's expertise was in neurasthenia and Sherlock, whatever his reason for being there, clearly did not have the same problems as his fellow patients.

"What a waste of my time," Sherlock declared and John rolled his eyes. 

"Let's take a walk," Sherlock suggested then, spinning to face John.

"I'm in the middle of something," John protested.

Sherlock glanced between John and the table and then gave John a distasteful look. "Your insipid poetry can wait."

John went to ask how Sherlock knew what he'd been doing, then thought better of it. He glanced out of the window.

"It looks like rain," he commented.

"Oh, John, really!" Sherlock exclaimed in frustration. "Not afraid of a bit of precipitation, are you?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Good. Let's go."

John sighed and got to his feet. His leg wasn't aching as much today and he could probably do with getting out for a while. Who knew, perhaps he would find inspiration outside.

It was just starting to drizzle as they headed out and John frowned, hunching over in his coat and shoving his hands in his pockets. Sherlock rolled his eyes and strode out in front, seemingly unaffected. John hurried to catch up with him, and gave him a pointed look.

"I don't know why you bother asking me to accompany you if you're just going to stalk off without me."

"I need someone to talk to," Sherlock answered without even turning to look at John. "If I talk to myself, they really will think I'm mad." His lips twitched with amusement and John shook his head.

"I feel truly valued, thank you."

"No need to play at being aggrieved, John. I think it obvious you're the only person I can tolerate in this godforsaken place."

John stopped in surprise. Sherlock took a few more steps, and then realised John wasn't at his side anymore and turned back.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, a faint flush colouring his face.

John cleared his throat awkwardly and shook his head. "Nothing. Nothing."

Sherlock looked relieved and they carried on in silence. John hadn't realised he'd made such an impression, and he felt somewhat touched by the sentiment, but it would probably save them both some embarrassment if he said nothing. He simply smiled and wandered along at Sherlock's side, the drizzle lighter as they passed into the slight shelter offered by a tree-covered walkway.

To John's relief, they took a shorter route than before, heading back to the main building just as the rain finally began to pour in earnest. They were just making their way towards the stairs when Bryce's voice stopped them.

"Holmes," he called.

Sherlock stopped, albeit somewhat reluctantly, and turned back to Bryce.

"Your brother sent something for you. It's in your room."

"Thank you," Sherlock said awkwardly, and Bryce gave them a nod before heading on his way. 

When they reached their room, there was a small wooden case lying on Sherlock's bed. Sherlock obviously recognised it, because he rushed forward, throwing open the lid to reveal a violin.

"That bastard!" Sherlock got out.

"What's wrong?"

Sherlock shook his head in agitation. John had no idea why a violin could cause so much upset.

"Do you play?"

"Of course I do," Sherlock bit out. "This is my violin."

"Then what's the problem?"

"The problem is that he's manipulating me just as he always does. I go to that wretched appointment and this is my _reward_ ," he spat.

"Maybe he wanted to do something nice," John suggested hesitantly.

"John, you have no idea what you're saying, so do please be quiet."

John rolled his eyes and moved to sit on his bed. Sherlock continued to stare at the instrument, hands fisted in his hair, a strange mixture of longing and anger in his expression. 

Finally, he seemed to make a decision and he let out a growl before lifting the violin reverently from its case. He tucked it under his chin, his fingers curling around the neck as he closed his eyes momentarily, a private moment of contentment. He opened his eyes again and plucked one of the strings, frowning at the sound it made and reaching up to twist one of the pegs before plucking it again. He repeated this string by string until he was apparently satisfied. John watched on, enraptured - his mother played the piano, but beyond that he had very little experience of musicians outside of a concert.

When Sherlock was done, he reached into the case and pulled out a bow. He placed the violin down just long enough to smooth rosin over the hair, and then tucked the instrument back under his chin once more, the bow hovering over the strings. His eyes flickered to John as he drew the bow over the strings in one long, smooth movement. 

"You don't mind?" Sherlock asked, a last minute show of courtesy that made John smile.

"No. Please, go ahead."

And he did, launching into a fast song that sounded vaguely familiar, his arm jerking back and forth. His eyes fell closed once more as he appeared to lose himself in the music, his body swaying faintly with the ebb and swell of the rhythm. John could only sit back and watch in delighted astonishment as Sherlock raced through the tune.

With barely a pause, Sherlock moved onto something different, slower but no less complex, his fingers flying over the violin, his arm drawing the bow in long, powerful strokes. It was fascinating to watch, but more than that, John could practically feel the emotion behind every note deep in his chest. 

Sherlock didn't seem to want to stop, lost in his own world, jumping from one song to the other. John, his one-man audience, couldn't bring himself to look away from the show for a single second.

He didn't know how much later it was when Sherlock finally stopped, the last note echoing around the room as he lowered his arm. 

"Splendid," John commented when he could find his voice again.

"Which bit?" Sherlock asked, throwing himself on his bed, violin cradled against his chest.

"All of it," John said with a grin.

Sherlock gave him a pleased smile, then leaned his head back against the headboard, fingers idly plucking the strings.

"It helps me think."

"Thinking will get you in trouble in the Army," John quipped.

Sherlock made a noise of agreement, his tone flat as he added: "Some people can't just turn it off though."

"Can they not?" John asked, studying his roommate intently.

"My brain never stops," Sherlock said in a low voice. "It demands constant attention, constant entertainment."

"Sounds exhausting."

Sherlock let out a humourless chuckle. "You could say that."

It was on the tip of John's tongue to ask if that was the reason for whatever substance it was that had DI Morrison dub him an addict. (Cocaine, maybe? Easy enough to come by, even with the sales restrictions. Or morphine, perhaps, the only comfort to be found in the trenches, and a false one at that.) He looked Sherlock over and instantly dismissed the idea; last night had shown him that it was a sensitive topic.

"I hope this doesn't mean you're going to be playing the violin at all hours."

Sherlock tilted his head and smiled. "Only when you're awake, I promise. You hardly need any more disruption to your sleeping patterns."

"What about you?"

Sherlock gave him a questioning look.

"Do you even have a sleeping pattern? I've hardly seen you use that bed. Last night was the first you actually stayed in it."

Sherlock sat up, his eyes meeting John's and then drifting over to the window. John wasn't sure if he'd imagined the slightly guilty look on Sherlock's face.

"I sleep only when I have to, and it doesn't always come easily."

"Is there nothing you can take?" John regretted the thoughtless question even as he asked and he cursed himself inwardly.

Sherlock gave a dismissive laugh, his expression hardening. He got to his feet once more, setting the violin once more in his case, before turning towards John, who was still frowning at his faux pas.

"I thought it was all fine."

"It-it is."

"Is it really?" Sherlock pushed, bright eyes fixed unwaveringly on John. Before John could summon up a defence, a promise - anything - Sherlock turned away again. "I suppose that remains to be seen."

John had no answer to that, and he swallowed thickly. Sherlock seemed to dismiss the subject a moment later. "I thought I saw a chess set in the smoking room the other day. Shall we?"

"Certainly. Although I suspect I'll have to prepare myself for a crushing defeat."

Sherlock gave a wink and proceeded out of the door, John following right behind.

*

Later that afternoon, John made his way (slowly, painfully) to Dr. Worthing's office. Worthing had requested they increase the frequency of their sessions, and John had no real reason to refuse, even if he saw very little benefit in it. He knocked on the door and entered, only to come to a halt when he caught sight of the stranger sitting behind Dr. Worthing's desk. John frowned in confusion.

"Do sit down, Captain Watson."

"Excuse me, sorry, who are you?"

"Please," the man said, waving imperiously at the other chair. John, too used to taking orders that made little sense, sat without further protest.

"Now," the man said, pressing his hands together. "What can you tell me about Sherlock Holmes?"

John's brow furrowed. "Barely anything. I met him three days ago."

"You share a room. Surely you must be privy to more information than that."

"Sorry," John answered, tight-lipped. "You'd be better off asking the staff."

The man leaned back in his chair, regarding John with a steady gaze.

"Do you know why he's here, Watson?" he asked in a low voice.

"It's not my business to know."

"And yet you know it is not for the same reason as yourself."

John shrugged helplessly, then crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm sorry, but what is going on? I'm meant to be seeing Dr. Worthing. Has he been replaced?"

"Not at all. I merely asked him to step outside so I could have a few words with you."

"About Sherlock Holmes. Why?"

"I worry about him." There was something off about the tone, an edge of something sinister that lurked below the surface of his apparent concern.

"Well he's better off here than in a trench over in Belgium," John returned stiffly.

The man laughed darkly. "Yes, I'm sure you're quite right."

The man seemed to relax at that, his expression softening ever so slightly. "How did he like his gift?"

And suddenly it all made sense - the vague echo of dark hair and clipped tones, all-seeing eyes, and now this question. 

"You're his brother."

The man raised an eyebrow in surprise, then smiled thinly, bowing his head in greeting. "Mycroft Holmes."

Having already experienced the eccentricity of the younger Holmes, the meeting now lost its sinister undertones.

"Shouldn't you be seeing your brother instead," John suggested.

"I'm not sure my visit will be taken well."

It was John's turn to raise an eyebrow. Had the man really travelled all the way here just to interrogate his brother's roommate? 

As if reading his thoughts, Holmes sat forward in his seat, lacing his hands.

"Let us speak plainly. I have a proposition for you."

John inclined his head in silent question.

"My brother, as you are perhaps well aware, is in a delicate...phase. I wish to ensure he completes his treatment and returns to his duty."

John remained silent, waiting.

"Unfortunately, my work means I have very little time to attend to this matter. As such, it would be incredibly useful if I could have a second pair of eyes," he finished significantly.

John barely had to think about his reply. "I'm sorry, but no."

Holmes frowned, clearly not used to being refused. "I can make it very worth your while."

John shook his head, and Holmes regarded him with a mixture of surprise and displeasure. "You're very loyal, very quickly," he commented icily.

"No," John disagreed. "It's just that I'm a soldier, not a spy."

Holmes pursed his lips, his hands clasped together. "I see there will be no persuading you."

"I'm afraid not."

Holmes sighed. "Very well then." He paused a moment, then continued in a serious tone. "But let me warn you now against forming any sort of connection with my brother. He is exceedingly good at playing a part to get what he wants." 

"Right," John cut in. "Well, I'll be sure to take care. Are we done here?"

Holmes gave him a long look and then rose to his feet. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Watson. I'll leave to your appointment."

Politeness drilled in to him over thirty-odd years had John on his feet and bowing his head in farewell even as he wished he had the gall not to. Holmes nodded and pulled on a pair of leather gloves before heading to the door. 

"One last thing," Holmes said, turning to John. "My brother... he's not well. Do take care not to become... infected."

John frowned but Holmes said nothing more, leaving him to the tumult of his thoughts.

*

After a session which passed mostly in a blur, John returned to the room, and was greeted with stony, oppressive silence. Sherlock was curled up on his bed, back to John, violin cradled at his side as he stared out of the window. His expression was disconcertingly blank.

"Everything alright?" John asked uncertainly even though it clearly was not.

Sherlock made no reply, blinking slowly. 

"I, err, I met your brother."

Sherlock still said nothing, and John shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot. He gave a sigh and took a step towards Sherlock's bed.

"I was going to head down to dinner in a while, if you wanted to join me."

Sherlock was silent, and John finally gave up, giving himself a perfunctory wash before heading down to dinner. Sherlock was silent the entire time. 

John ate slowly, working over his conversation with Mycroft Holmes in his head, trying to work out the meaning behind some of his more cryptic utterances - with little success. He dallied in the library and finally returned to the room to find Sherlock hadn't moved an inch. 

"Sherlock?" John tried. "Are you... Do you want to talk?"

"No," Sherlock snapped, and suddenly - as if reanimated - he threw himself to his feet. "That's all you idiots want to do, talk talk talk. And yet every word that comes out of your mouths is meaningless," he said angrily, gesturing wildly. "You talk but you don't _think_ and it's utterly abominable."

John gaped, stunned by this vicious response.

"And you!" Sherlock intoned with distaste. "John Watson, the man of honour, the war hero who can't wait to go back. Who can't live without orders and death and suffering. Who just wants to be useful." Sherlock sneered. "Don't you see? You're no use to anyone anymore."

"I-I-I," John was so angry he could not get his mouth to cooperate, and Sherlock pounced.

"What good are you to anyone? You can't walk, you can't shoot, you can barely speak!" he crowed.

John saw red and before he knew quite what he'd done, he'd crossed the room and landed a punch on Sherlock's chin. Sherlock reeled back, stumbling and falling to the floor as John stood over him, clenching and unclenching his fists.

"I don't have to listen to this," he said carefully, fury clogging up the back of his throat. 

Sherlock pushed himself to sitting, hand pressed to his face even as he narrowed his eyes at John, spite shining in his gaze. 

"Go on then, bugger off!" he spat.

John took a deep breath, then another, then span on his heel and left at a quick march before anger propelled him into another ill-advised assault. If Sherlock decided to report this, it could mean big trouble for John, but right now, he couldn't care less. He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him, and walked away as quickly as he could, swearing under his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical note: cocaine was a legal drug in the UK at the outbreak of war, but emergency legislation in 1916 sought to restrict sales to soldiers after concerns over prolific use by soldiers at the Front.


	5. Chapter 5

John woke early, his leg throbbing with pain. He'd walked much too far yesterday in his desperate attempt to rein in his anger and avoid Sherlock and, worse, he'd been so angry he'd left without his cane. He'd got to the bottom of the main stairs before he realised, and at that point his legs had threatened to give out underneath him. They hadn't, though, so he'd kept walking, limping only ever so slightly. He'd roamed the corridors and done several laps around the outside of the building before returning eventually to an empty room. 

Sherlock had returned once in the night and John had pretended to be asleep while he threw his belongings into his suitcase. He had wanted to say something, but hadn't trusted himself to do so without starting another argument, and Sherlock had crept out again five minutes later.

As John eased up from his bed, hand rubbing at his leg, he wondered how far Sherlock had got - and how long it would be before he was found and returned. Craiglockhart might not be a prison, but the staff weren't going to let anyone just run away. The men were trapped here just as much as they were in the trenches - this was their duty, and desertion was still a punishable offence.

John spent the morning pottering around the room, reading, writing a long overdue letter to his best friend, Bill Murray (still in Ypres, the poor bugger) and growing increasingly bored. He staggered down to lunch and back again, and was just stationing himself in the chair by the window when the door opened. Sherlock shuffled in, flanked by two military police officers, and followed by Bryce.

Bryce glanced briefly at John. "So sorry about this, Watson."

"I- No, it's not a problem, not at all."

Bryce turned back to Sherlock, his expression darkening as his voice lowered. "This is your last chance, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock squared his jaw but said nothing, and Bryce left with the police officers. Sherlock remained standing for some time, his throat working, eyes fixed on the wall. John couldn't bring himself to break the silence, and shifted restlessly in his chair.

Eventually, Sherlock cleared his throat. "I should apologise."

John looked up at him again, taking in the purple bruise across his chin.

"Yes, you probably should."

Sherlock finally turned his head to meet John's gaze, his expression almost lifeless. John had seen that look too many times not to recognise it for what it was - the sign of a man close to giving up. 

"But then," John added, before Sherlock could open his mouth, "I'd have to apologise too. And I'm not sure I'm quite ready to."

"I think your actions were suitably justified."

"Violence is never justified," John answered, then had to stop to consider the absurdity of his own words when half of the world was at war. Sherlock must have noticed, because his lips twitched, just a little.

"You'll be telling Haig that then, will you?" he murmured.

John paused for a moment in mock-consideration before speaking up. "Perhaps we'll keep that one to ourselves."

Sherlock smiled properly then, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. He moved his suitcase from where one of the officers had set it on the bed, and sat down, his shoulders sagging.

"How far did you get then?" John couldn't help but ask.

"Edinburgh train station."

John chewed on his lip for a moment before answering. "You could have landed in serious trouble, you realise. They don't take desertion lightly, even if you're not over in Flanders."

Sherlock let out a bitter laugh. "I'm well aware, John, thank you."

For a second it seemed like Sherlock was going to say something else, but then he turned away, his fingers ghosting over his violin case. John struggled to think of a safe topic of conversation, but in the end it was Sherlock who broke the silence.

"My brother..." He cleared his throat again. "Did he threaten you?"

"No," John answered in surprise. "Does he do that a lot?"

Sherlock gave him a humourless smile.

"I have to admit, I don't think I was quite as awestruck as he would have liked," John added, and Sherlock laughed.

"I can imagine." 

"What exactly does he do?"

"He's the British government."

"Sorry? You mean, he works for the government?"

"No," Sherlock returned. "Just as I said, he _is_ the British government. He's quite likely the most powerful man you will ever meet."

John mulled that over. "Perhaps I should have behaved myself more appropriately then."

Sherlock gave him a piercing look. "He offered you money to spy on me."

"Yes," John confirmed.

"You... refused?"

"Of course."

"Of course?" Sherlock echoed in confusion.

"I told him, I'm a soldier, not a spy. And I especially don't spy on my friends."

Sherlock stared at him, eyes tracking over John's face in obvious surprise before he schooled himself. "I... Thank you."

"You're welcome. I sincerely hope I'm not going to get beheaded for this."

"My brother is the government, not the King," Sherlock remarked.

"Well, thank Heaven for small mercies," John said with a grin, which Sherlock returned.

"Indeed."

A moment of companionable silence passed, then Sherlock fished in his pocket for his cigarette tin. "Cigarette?"

"Please."

John gladly took a cigarette, and bent in close for Sherlock to light it, before retreating once more to his chair. He felt almost instantly better, more relaxed, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. A glance over at Sherlock found him stretched out on his bed, letting out a stream of smoke towards the ceiling, looking - at least for the moment - content. John smiled to himself and settled back in his chair. There was certainly never a dull moment with Sherlock Holmes around.

*

"Did you hear about Mr. Smith?" Anderson asked his companion, Dimmock, as they sat down to dinner just along from John and Sherlock. John shared a nod of greeting with both, but Sherlock kept his eyes on his plate. Anderson frowned, but turned back to Dimmock.

"The orderly?" Dimmock asked.

"Yes."

"No, what happened?" Dimmock asked, obviously intrigued by what appeared to be Craiglockhart's latest piece of gossip.

"Sent off to some hospital in the Highlands."

"No! Why?"

Anderson shook his head. "Nobody knows. He left first thing this morning."

Dimmock pursed his lips. "He always was a bit of a strange one," he said. 

Anderson looked over in their direction and John made a poor attempt at pretending to be absorbed in his dinner.

"I thought I saw you talking to him just yesterday morning, Holmes," Anderson spoke up, a sneer on his face. "Maybe you know why he was mysteriously dismissed."

Sherlock finally lifted his head to glare at Anderson. "I do not," he said stiffly. "And I don't think it's becoming for a _gentleman_ to waste his time making idle speculation about the staff."

Anderson made a pinched face, but before he could say anything, Sherlock abruptly rose to his feet and left. John gave Anderson and Dimmock a weak smile and followed as quickly as he could, catching up to Sherlock at the door.

"That was a little harsh."

"I am not in the mood, John," Sherlock said stonily. "That man is an imbecile and I can't bear to sit and listen to his tittle-tattle."

"All right," John said in a pacifying tone, before letting the matter drop. He followed Sherlock to the smoking room, where he duly lost yet another game of chess, but by the end of it, Sherlock's mood seemed to have improved a little.

*

Sherlock still seemed out of sorts when John finally started getting ready for bed that evening. Sherlock lay on his bed, violin resting on his chest, plucking idly at the strings. He had that hopeless look to him again that John could hardly bear to see, and John tried in vain to engage him in conversation, but all of his attempts fell flat. He couldn't even pinpoint why it bothered him so much - he'd seen so many men struggling, he'd been there himself more than once during the course of the War - and yet Sherlock's silent suffering made him uncomfortable in his own skin, made him itchy and restless and desperate to make it stop. 

When John bade him goodnight, Sherlock mumbled a reply but did not even look over, and John slipped quietly into bed. Sleep was not going to come easy that night, and John tossed and turned repeatedly whilst trying to get comfortable. Even then, his mind would not be put to rest, and although his eyes were closed, his thoughts were racing, keeping him from sleep.

At some point, who knew how much later, while John drifted on the edge of sleep, Sherlock rose from his bed. He crept to the door and opened it carefully, before sneaking out. John jerked into full awareness, sitting up swiftly. For the first time, he found himself desperate to know where it was that Sherlock disappeared to almost every night. More than that, though, he was worried about what Sherlock might try next, having failed to escape less than twenty-four hours previously. What might he be driven to?

With a shudder of horror, John jumped out of bed, shoved his feet in his slippers, and moved to the door as quickly as he could. He pressed an ear to it and, upon hearing nothing, dared to crack the door open an inch. The corridor was empty and still, and he slipped out into the darkness, pulling the door shut behind him.

John made his way stealthily to the stairs and down to the ground floor, before halting at the bottom step. Sherlock hadn't taken his coat, so John assumed that he was still indoors somewhere. He set off for the smoking room first, creeping as quietly as possible through the corridors. 

The smoking room was empty, and so was the library and the canteen. The only other rooms in this part of the building were the doctors' offices, and John was about to dismiss them when he heard a series of low thuds coming from the nearest one - Bryce's room. John turned and crept to the door, before taking a deep breath and throwing it open.

It took a moment for the scene before him to register, illuminated only by the weak light of the moon shining through the large bay windows. Sherlock stood in the doorway of the store room which adjoined Bryce's, sagging against the frame, his hands fisted in his hair. He looked up at John as the door flew open, and for a moment his expression was flooded with sheer desperation. John's gaze flicked to the room behind Sherlock and the empty cabinet with the doors thrown open. It seemed frighteningly obvious what had previously been stored in there.

"Go on then," Sherlock said in a broken voice, and John looked at him again.

"You've been stealing," he said hesitantly. "Stealing... drugs?"

Sherlock moved his head, not quite a nod, but an acknowledgment nonetheless.

"Where did you get the key?" he asked, but even as he spoke, the answer came to him. "Ah... Mr. Smith."

Sherlock caught his gaze, eyes feverishly bright. "I need it, John," he said in a low voice. "Don't you see?"

John swallowed around the lump in his throat and shook his head. "No, I don't."

"I told you," Sherlock said. "My mind... It needs constant entertainment. I can't- My brain is rotting in this place."

"So you would rather lose it in a drug-addled haze."

"You don't understand."

"Don't I?" John countered. "No, I forget, Sherlock Holmes is the only one here who's suffering."

"It's not the same-"

"No, of course not! Sherlock Holmes does not belong here. He's not ill, he's not deranged, he's not afraid of sleeping, or eating, or dreaming about dead men." He stopped for a moment, his breath ragged with emotion. "If you don't want to be here, why don't you just get your all-powerful brother to take you away? I'm sure he could do it with a snap of his fingers."

"Who do you think had me sent here in the first place?" Sherlock got out angrily. 

"Because of the drugs," John suggested quietly.

"No, because it was either this or a firing squad!"

The room went still as John tried to process what he'd heard - a firing squad meant only one thing. His eyes searched out Sherlock's in the gloom, trying to reconcile the man he knew with the image of a deserter.

"So, now you know," Sherlock whispered. 

"Why?" John choked out.

"Because this war is a farce. Because the generals have no idea what they're doing. Because I was tired of receiving and passing on orders that made no sense."

They'd all thought it - of course they had - but hearing the words from Sherlock's mouth was like a blow to the gut.

"So you just... left?"

Sherlock let out a sigh, his head tilted towards the ceiling. "I left. And I headed for the nearest town, where I found the nearest brothel and a healthy supply of cocaine."

John let out a shaky breath. "Then what?"

"Then my all-powerful brother snapped his fingers."

"And spared your life."

Sherlock scoffed, eyes finding John's. "He couldn't bear for the family name to be sullied. Much better to blame my actions on a mental defect." He smiled sourly.

"DI Morrison-"

"Oh yes, he'd obviously heard some of the story, but my brother has been all too careful to keep the whole sordid truth hidden away. And yet, not content to let me waste away here in peace, he insists on meddling." Sherlock threw a look at the room behind him. 

"Or, trying to stop you from further destroying yourself."

Sherlock turned back, his eyes fixing on John. "Oh, is that how it is? My brother has recruited himself a supporter after all."

"I told you, I'm not a spy. But I won't sit by and watch my friend lose himself."

"Oh, John," Sherlock sneered "You think you know me, but you don't. I am nobody's friend. I am far too dangerous for that."

"You don't look very dangerous to me," John said firmly, crossing his arms across his chest. 

Sherlock laughed, a humourless sound. "No, I suppose not. But then, you've faced down German guns." His gaze tracked over John, and John straightened unconsciously. "I sometimes wonder if you have any limits at all, John. Do you see the good in everyone?"

"No, but I do see it in those who think it's not there."

Sherlock's expression shifted into something softer, sadder. "I'm sure my brother told you you'd be better off not associating with me."

"I'd stopped paying attention by that point," John quipped, drawing a half-smile from Sherlock. 

"You can't save me," Sherlock said solemnly.

"I can't save myself either. Might as well have some company to pass the time with, don't you think?"

Their gazes held, a silent moment of acknowledgement, and then Sherlock turned and quietly put the store room to rights. He locked the room and finally made his way over to John. John held his hand out with a meaningful look and, after a moment's hesitation, Sherlock placed the key in John's hand.

John nodded and crossed to place the key on the table, before joining Sherlock at the door once more.

"I don't think I'll be able to sleep just yet," John said lightly. "How about another game of chess? I'm sure I can beat you this time."

Sherlock acquiesced with a tired smile. "Fine."

He moved to step away but John stopped him with a hand on his arm. Sherlock paused, his eyes flicking to John's hand and then to John's face.

"I want you to know that you can tell me anything in confidence," John said reassuringly. "You can trust me."

"I know," Sherlock answered softly.

"Good."

They lingered in the doorway a moment longer, then moved off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> *General Haig was commander of the British Army from 1915.
> 
> * During WWI, desertion was punishable by death (execution by firing squad). The UK executed over 300 men, but these were primarily in the lower ranks. A number of officers sentenced to death were given a royal pardon; others were cleared if they were seen to be suffering from neurasthenia.


	6. Chapter 6

After their late night, John woke later than usual the next morning, blinking sleepily as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. His gaze shifted across the room, but Sherlock was not in his bed - instead, he sat in the chair by the window, wrapped up in his sheets, his shoulders bare. His head lolled against the back of the chair, but John could just see the faint glint of his open eyes.

John sat up to get a better look at him. There was a faint sheen on his skin, and even from here, John could see the tell-tale twitching of his legs - his body was already fighting its loss.

"Morning," John mumbled, and Sherlock rolled his head sideways to look at him. He looked even more awful head-on, sweat-damp hair falling over his wan face. 

"Have you slept at all?" John asked softly, throwing his legs over the side of the bed.

"What do you think?" Sherlock said, his tone laced with tiredness and agitation.

John got to his feet, ignoring the jibe. "I'll get you some water."

Sherlock said nothing as John filled a glass and brought it over. Sherlock gave him a tired look as John held it out, and John found himself reaching out to place his free hand on Sherlock's pale, clammy shoulder. 

"Come on, drink. It will do you good."

Sherlock finally reached up with a trembling hand and took the glass. John watched as he downed the whole thing in several large gulps, letting John remove it again once it was empty. 

"I imagine you're not very hungry," John remarked, unthinkingly reaching up to press the back of his hand to Sherlock's warm forehead. Sherlock gave him a piercing look, none of its intensity lost in the fog of withdrawal.

"You've done this before," he got out slowly, his eyes narrowing as he appeared to search John's face for more clues.

"Yes," John admitted, drawing his hand away as he awkwardly cleared his throat. "My brother."

"Oh," Sherlock breathed. "There's always something."

"You really should try to get some sleep," John suggested. "If nothing else, it helps the time pass much more quickly."

Sherlock made a vague noise of complaint, his eyelids flickering tiredly. "I'm cold."

John's gaze flicked over what he could see of Sherlock's bare chest. "I'm not surprised. Why did you take your shirt off?"

"I was hot," Sherlock said petulantly.

John let out a huff of laughter and set the empty glass down on the windowsill, before returning to Sherlock. "Come on," he urged softly, pressing a hand to Sherlock's back and holding his arm. "Let's get you to bed."

"I'm not a child," Sherlock protested, but he rose unsteadily to his feet as John wrapped a supporting arm around his back.

John helped Sherlock stagger the short distance to the bed, whilst trying not to put too much weight on his bad leg and risk sending them both to the floor. He gently urged Sherlock to lie down against the pillows, gathering the sheets messily around him.

"I feel awful," Sherlock said. "I hope you're happy."

"Of course not," John said, crossing the room to retrieve the thick woollen blanket from his own bed. "I wish you didn't have to go through this." 

He draped the blanket over Sherlock, tucking it around him. Sherlock watched closely the whole time, something soft and surprised in his expression.

"It will get worse," Sherlock said. "This is just the start."

"I know, I remember," John replied. The next day or so was going to be unpleasant for everyone concerned. "If you're worried, I can inform Major Bryce and -"

"No."

"You might need medical help."

Sherlock shook his head fervently. "I've done this before. Alone."

John decided not to point out that it obviously hadn't been very successful and instead perched awkwardly on the edge of Sherlock's bed. "Well, at least you won't be alone this time. I'll do whatever I can to help."

Sherlock smiled weakly. "I don't doubt that you will."

"Now please, do try to get some sleep."

Sherlock sighed, but settled back against his pillows. His leg gave a particularly vicious jerk, knocking John on the hip, and John placed a hand on Sherlock's knee, smiling. "I'll retreat out of shooting distance, I think."

John got to his feet once more and moved towards the chair, turning it and dragging it a little closer to Sherlock's bed. Sherlock watched him through half-lidded eyes, their gazes meeting as John sat down.

"You needn't stay," Sherlock mumbled.

"I don't mind."

Sherlock gave him a grateful look, then turned his face away, closing his eyes as he huddled down under the blankets.

*

Despite everything, Sherlock dropped off quickly, and John sat for a little while, flicking idly through the newspaper, until he was sure that Sherlock was asleep. He then took the opportunity to wash and dress, before ducking out down to the kitchen in search of some food. Breakfast was long since over, but the cook was kind enough to give John some bread and cheese, which John brought back to the room.

He was just at the door of their room when the sound of footsteps drew his attention to the approaching form of Major Bryce.

"Good morning, Watson."

"Good morning, sir."

Bryce stopped at the door, giving it a significant look. "And how is Holmes today?"

John hesitated for just a moment, before answering. "I'm afraid he's not feeling very well, sir," he said quietly.

Bryce gave him a long, searching look. "I see. Perhaps we had better move him, then."

"It's no bother, really."

Bryce examined him closely once more and then straightened, giving a sharp nod. "Very well." He looked around and then lowered his voice. "I'm afraid we don't have anything that will help him. He'll just have to bear with it."

"Yes, sir."

"You're familiar with this... illness?"

"Familiar enough, sir."

"Good." He paused and threw another look at the door, before turning back to John. "If you need anything, do be sure to let me know."

"I will."

Bryce nodded again, crossing his hands behind his back. "Well, good luck."

"Thank you, sir."

Bryce turned and made his way back down the corridor once more. John watched him until he was out of sight, then slipped back into the room. His gaze flew to Sherlock's empty bed, then to the water closet adjoining their room, where he could hear a faint moan.

"Sherlock," he called, moving towards the door. "Are you alright?"

"No," Sherlock said faintly. "I think I'm dying."

"I sincerely doubt it," John answered with a faint smile.

Sherlock let out a low moan again. "I disagree. I don't think I've ever vomited quite so violently in my life."

John made a face. "Delightful," he muttered to himself, before raising his voice. "It'll pass. Just... give a shout if you need me."

John retreated to his chair, wolfing down half of the bread and cheese whilst keeping an ear open for Sherlock. A long time later, he heard the flush of the toilet and Sherlock emerged, looking even paler than before. Before John could reach him, he staggered over to his bed and dropped down onto it, curling up on his side, the blankets kicked down to the bottom.

John perched on the side of the bed once more. "I know you won't particularly want to, but I've got some bread here, and cheese if you want it. I think you'd better try to eat something."

Sherlock made a non-committal noise and John went to fetch the other half of the bread. Sherlock took it without protest and nibbled on it halfheartedly as John pressed a hand absently to Sherlock's forehead. "You're getting very warm."

Sherlock hummed in agreement, before turning over onto his back, dislodging John's hand. He shifted restlessly whilst finishing the last of the bread, eventually ending up half sitting up, his head resting against the headboard. John couldn't help noticing how thin he looked, his ribs clearly visible under his skin.

"Talk to me," Sherlock said after a while.

"About what?"

"Anything. I need the distraction."

So John spoke about anything and everything, stories tumbling from his mouth one after another. He spoke of Harry, and his mother, and Bill Murray. He spoke of the first day he set foot in France, and the last before he came home. Sherlock stayed silent, visibly drifting in and out of a light doze, until they were inevitably interrupted by a dash to the water closet. John waited patiently, and continued from where he had left off once Sherlock returned. 

Some time passed, and it was only when his voice went hoarse that John realised how long he had been talking. He made to apologise, but Sherlock waved his apology away, and asked him to continue. John did so until just before three in the afternoon, when Sherlock fell asleep once more.

*

John managed to get dinner whilst Sherlock slept on and, after a word with the cook, was able to bring some broth back to the room. Sherlock was beginning to stir just as John shut the door behind him, and he watched exhaustedly as John sat down next to the bed.

"I've got you some broth. Do you think you can sit up?"

Sherlock nodded weakly, but in the end it took the both of them to get him sitting upright. John handed over the bowl, but Sherlock's hands were shaking so much the contents threatened to spill over.

"I'll hold it."

"I can do it," Sherlock snapped, giving him a glare.

"Fine," John allowed, holding his hands up in surrender and moving away. He knew better than to take anything personally right now.

When Sherlock had eaten as much as he could, John managed to coax another glass of water down him. Sherlock sighed and settled back against his pillows once he was done, flexing his hands.

"My hands hurt. That's new."

John sat forward and held out his hand. Sherlock gave him a confused look, so John leaned across and took Sherlock's hand.

"What are you doing?"

"Just shut up and see," John said affectionately, holding Sherlock's hand in both of his and smoothing his thumbs across the back. Harry's aches had been in his feet, but this was sure to be the same thing, and the only thing that had helped then had been when John had dragged Harry's feet in his lap and kneaded the muscles with his fingers. 

Once he'd got over his surprise, Sherlock's hand went limp as John continued to rub circles into the skin.

"Helping?" John asked.

Sherlock merely hummed, and John smiled and gestured for Sherlock's other hand. Sherlock rolled onto his side and held it out, releasing a little contented sigh as John took it.

Sherlock's eyes were heavy lidded, but John could practically feel the weight of his gaze. When their eyes finally met, John was surprised to find Sherlock's normally hard stare softened into something almost unrecognisable.

"I don't know anyone who cares so much about people he barely knows," Sherlock murmured. "Your men must have loved you." There was just a hint of bitterness in his tone.

John could feel his ears burning pink and he looked down with an abashed smile.

"I've had the pleasure of listening to you vomit, I feel like we know each other quite well now," John observed.

"You don't want to know me," Sherlock said quietly. "You're too good to associate with someone like me."

"Are we going to have this argument again?"

Sherlock gave a bitter smile and shook his head slowly. "You'll see."

"To be quite frank, I can't imagine what other secrets you might have which would shock me," John commented. 

Sherlock sighed, an almost sad sound, his eyes fluttering closed. "Just the one secret," he whispered. "You know everything else."

John straightened with interest, but Sherlock's eyes remained closed and when John took in his pallor and his clammy skin, he knew now was not the time to press. In any case, he had his suspicions, and he knew better than to voice them if Sherlock was not going to.

"Would you like me to read to you?" John suggested.

"Not that awful book you're reading," Sherlock said weakly.

"What then?"

"Do you have today's paper?" he asked.

"Yes. Would you like me to read the headlines?"

"No, I don't wish to hear any more lies about how well we're doing on the Front. Read me the obituaries."

"The obituaries?" John echoed.

"Maybe we'll get lucky and find a good murder in there."

John shook his head, but unfolded the paper and flicked to the obituaries section.

*

Sherlock's condition got progressively worse, to a point where John was on the verge of going to Bryce. As soon as he brought it up, though, Sherlock dismissed the idea angrily.

"No," Sherlock shouted from the water closet, where he'd been for at least twenty minutes as his body continued to punish him.

"Sherlock, I really do think-"

"Well, don't," Sherlock snapped. "I don't need any help."

John sighed, sagging back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. Sherlock's irritability was definitely getting worse, along with the physical symptoms.

"Just leave me be," Sherlock growled. This was swiftly followed by a low groan and noises that made John grimace. 

John rolled his eyes and pushed himself away from the wall. He dropped to his bed and scrubbed a hand over his face. He generally liked to think of himself as a patient person - it was the only thing that had kept him sane during bombardments that went on for hours - but even his patience had limits. Looking after anyone was tiring, but Sherlock was even more temperamental than usual in his current state, and John was exhausted from keeping up with his sudden mood changes. Maybe all he needed was a short break.

He rose determinedly to his feet just as the door to the water closet opened. Sherlock shuffled back to his bed, burying himself under the blankets despite his excessive perspiration. 

"I'm going out," John announced.

Sherlock's eyes flew to John, all menace disappearing in an instant. "Where are you going?" he asked, looking so much like a lost child that John almost changed his mind.

"I'd like to get some air."

At once, Sherlock's face twisted back into a scowl. "Don't hurry back on my account."

John sighed and said nothing, picking up his cane. He was practically at the door when Sherlock spoke again.

"No-one asked you to stay with me," Sherlock pointed out, drawing John to a halt. 

"No-one has to ask me. That's what friends do."

"I don't have friends."

"I wonder why," John said tiredly. He squared his shoulders and reached for the door handle. "I'll be back in twenty minutes."

Sherlock said nothing as John limped from the room, breathing more easily as soon as he stepped out into the corridor. He took several deep breaths, then set off towards the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historial/linguistic note: 'kicking the habit' (involuntary leg spasms) and 'going cold turkey' (goosebumps) both derive from the symptoms of morphine withdrawal.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably have said this in the last chapter, but I am not a doctor. All my information about morphine withdrawal comes from Wikipedia :-)

Three seemingly endless days later, the worst of the symptoms seemed to have passed, although Sherlock was still weak and slightly feverish. He'd also lost a startling amount of weight, skin drawn over too-prominent bones, and whenever John helped him walk to the water closet, it almost felt like Sherlock was about to disintegrate beneath his touch.

"I'm afraid it's common in this situation," Bryce explained when John, having reached the point of desperation, asked for his advice whilst Sherlock slept. "He'll pick up again now that the worst has passed. The best you can do is make sure he eats as much as he can, as often as he can."

"Of course," John agreed, running a hand over his face. "Thank you."

"If you'd like me to get someone to take a look at him..."

"He was quite adamant," John said with a half-smile. "If he knew I'd consulted you, I don't think he'd be very happy."

Bryce pursed his lips but made no comment. 

"I should return before he wakes."

"He's incredibly lucky to have you, Watson," Bryce remarked. "Not many people have the patience or the kindness."

"I couldn't sit by and watch him suffer, sir."

"No, of course not."

Bryce rocked on his feet, arms behind his back. "I have informed his brother of his... cessation." 

"I imagine he was pleased."

Bryce hummed noncommittally. "I should let you get back to your patient."

"Yes. Thank you again, sir."

"Do keep me updated on his progress."

John nodded and left Bryce's office to return to their room. 

He found Sherlock awake, sitting in the chair, staring listlessly out of the window at the rainy sky. 

"Alright?"

"Where have you been?"

"I got some bread. Would you like some?"

Sherlock shook his head tiredly. John frowned, but set the bread down on the desk as he perched on the edge.

"And what was Major Bryce's prognosis?" Sherlock asked.

John shuffled guiltily, but he should have known better than to think he could deceive Sherlock. "You'll be fine in a few days," John said. 

"I could have told you that."

"I'm not sure I trust your judgement at present," John teased and Sherlock turned to give him a small smile. Although his irritability had mostly disappeared, it had been replaced with a quiet sort of melancholy that John wasn't sure was any better.

A few minutes passed in companionable silence, until John grew restless and pushed himself to his feet once more. He walked over to the window, looking out over the grounds. After several days cooped up indoors, he was starting to get antsy.

"I don't know how you lasted twenty-four hours in the trenches," Sherlock commented, and John turned to him, leaning against the windowsill.

"There just so happens to be a good reason for not going outside over there."

"What's a little sniper fire to a man like you?" Sherlock joked, his lips curving with amusement.

John laughed lowly. "Sadly, I'm not invincible," he said, rubbing his bad shoulder. "Much to my misfortune."

Sherlock made a noise of consideration. "I'd like to see that some time."

John raised an eyebrow, looking between his hand and Sherlock. "My shoulder?"

"Your scar," Sherlock corrected. "How well did it heal?"

John frowned. "Not overly well, with the infection."

"Fascinating," Sherlock said.

"You have the oddest interests," John returned, shaking his head. 

"Scars are vital to my work. Sometimes they can be the only identifying mark on a body."

"Yes, well, much as I'd love to contribute to your work-"

"Would you?" Sherlock cut in.

John barely had to think about it. "Of course. What you do... it's astonishing. I'd love to see you work."

Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise, but only a moment later his whole expression dropped. "After the war, maybe."

"Yes," John said, with more confidence than he felt. "Now, will you eat some of this bread?"

Sherlock gave a rueful sigh but nodded. "Fine."

*

"I feel absolutely filthy," Sherlock said out of the blue, startling John from his focus on the newspaper.

"Excuse me?"

"Filthy."

Sherlock was pushing himself up onto unsteady feet, and John rushed over to him, coaxing him back down to the bed. "Sit down," he said firmly. "You'll fall over."

"I haven't had a wash in days," Sherlock complained.

"You've been a little preoccupied," John said lightly, leaning awkwardly against the side of the bed, Sherlock propped against his hip. 

"John," Sherlock whined.

"Yes, fine, just... stay where you are."

John set his hands on Sherlock's shoulders to right him before heading over to the dresser. He filled the washbowl with water and retrieved a cloth, before returning to sit by Sherlock.

"You're becoming quite the proficient nurse," Sherlock commented.

"Shut up," John said playfully. "Take your shirt off."

Sherlock fumbled with his buttons, managing to get half undone before John was forced to intervene, finally slipping the shirt from bony shoulders. He dipped the cloth in the water and wrung it out, before handing it to Sherlock.

"I hope you don't think I'm doing all the work."

"God forbid," Sherlock said, running the cloth over his face and neck.

"I'll get you a towel."

John left him momentarily and when he turned back, Sherlock was shuffling out of his pyjama bottoms, revealing even more pale skin. John froze awkwardly, before clearing his throat and returning to Sherlock's side. He left a greater distance between them this time, and kept his eyes carefully averted. In spite of everything, he found himself blushing.

"Towel."

John handed Sherlock the terrycloth, eyes still fixed ahead of him, and Sherlock laughed.

"What?"

"I didn't take you for a prude, John."

John forced his eyes to Sherlock's in defiance. "I'm not a prude."

"Are you not?" Sherlock's eyes were bright with amusement; it was the most cheerful John had seen him.

"No."

"Ah, something else then," Sherlock said, eyes narrowing on John. "Are you homosexual, is that it?"

John gaped for several long seconds before he could splutter out an answer, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Sherlock, you can't just accuse people of such things."

"It wasn't an accusation," Sherlock reasoned, bright eyes watching John intently. "It was a simple question."

John gave him a bewildered look. "It's not a simple question," he said shakily. "People's lives have been ruined by that question."

"Have they indeed?" Sherlock asked, studying him closely. "Are you speaking from personal experience?"

Before John could admonish him again, Sherlock's eyes widened. "Oh, of course," he breathed. "Harry. It all makes sense now."

John felt as if he'd been winded, his breath rushing from him all in one go. He opened his mouth to refute it, but could not bring himself to speak.

"I'm right, aren't I?" Sherlock pressed.

John pressed his lips together, trying not to remember the night Harry had drunkenly revealed his secret - and put a swift end to the wedding that should have taken place the next day. The scandal tore the family apart, leaving John stuck in the middle, unsure what to do. It didn't take long for Harry to seek refuge in alcohol, at first, and then in opium.

"John," Sherlock called softly, and John met his eyes reluctantly. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have made light of it."

"No, you shouldn't have."

"I understand that you might be ashamed-"

"No," John interrupted in a firm tone. "I'm not ashamed of my brother."

Sherlock said nothing, but his gaze held John's, something like admiration in his expression. 

"Get back to your ablutions," John said after a moment. "Before you catch your death of cold."

Sherlock smiled and went back to washing himself down. John kept his distance until Sherlock was done, then removed the washbowl and cloth and helped Sherlock back into his clothes, gaze still carefully averted. Just as he finished doing up the buttons of Sherlock's top, Sherlock pressed a hand lightly over his.

"I hope I haven't offended you."

"You'd have to try a lot harder than that," John assured him.

"You're a very loyal brother."

"I'm not sure Harry would have agreed with you," John said quietly. It had never been enough that John was the only one to visit Harry after his revelation - Harry had wanted a vocal defence that John simply hadn't been brave enough to give.

"Then Harry did not know how fortunate he was," Sherlock said, suppressed anger colouring his tone.

"I'm sure your brother-"

"No, John," Sherlock cut in. "I assure you, whatever redeeming qualities you imagine my brother might have, he does not."

"You're very hard on him."

Sherlock gave him a look of disbelief. "He sent me here, John. I think that says a great deal about his regard for my wellbeing."

"Yes, I think it does," John agreed.

Sherlock held his gaze for a long moment, then scoffed. "Older brothers. They always think they know best," he said, his lips twitching with amusement.

"Whereas younger brothers are simply determined to drive us to distraction," John countered with a grin.

"We like to keep you on your toes."

John laughed. "You certainly do that."

Sherlock gave him a wide smile, his whole face lighting up with it. 

"Now come, I think you've exerted yourself enough for the time being," John urged. "You should rest."

"I am growing increasingly bored of _resting_."

"Just a few days, then you'll be feeling yourself again."

Sherlock huffed, but turned to lie down against his pillows. "I won't be feeling truly myself until this war is over and I can go back to the Work."

John settled in the chair, a frown settling over his features. "I'm not sure what I'll do after the war," he murmured, mostly to himself. His future career in the Army did not look promising at present.

"I could always use an assistant."

John laughed. "I'll be sure to look you up when this whole thing's over then."

"See that you do," Sherlock replied seriously. "I live at 221b Baker Street, London."

John looked over his shoulder and gave Sherlock a thin smile. "I'll see you there." He decided not to dwell on whether they would both survive the war - assuming that they were both declared fit for active service once more, which in itself seemed uncertain.

Sherlock smiled, his eyelids fluttering as sleep took hold once more. "Good."

*

By the next morning, Sherlock was feeling well enough to get up out of bed. John woke to find him rummaging through his bedside table.

"What are you doing?" John asked sleepily, rubbing his hand across his eyes. The only good thing about being so exhausted from looking after Sherlock was that he'd slept through most of the past few nights, the nightmares seemingly held at bay for the moment.

"Where are my cigarettes?"

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" John remarked, sitting up.

Sherlock simply scowled and shuffled his way to the coat stand. He went through the pockets of his coat and finally retrieved his silver tin.

"I see you're feeling better."

"I feel horrid, but I can't spend any more time lounging around in bed."

Sherlock slipped a cigarette from the tin and tucked it between his lips, before lighting it and inhaling deeply. He let out a hum of satisfaction along with a cloud of smoke and John rolled his eyes affectionately. Only a moment later, Sherlock gave a visible wobble and reached out to steady himself on the wall.

"Come and sit down, you idiot. I'm not picking you up if you fall over."

Sherlock scowled again, but shuffled as far as John's bed, dropping down only a few inches from John's feet.

"Careful!" John remonstrated with a smile, drawing his knees up.

"I want to go out."

John raised an eyebrow. "I repeat: I'm not picking you up if you fall."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm sure a doctor would say the fresh air would do me good."

John held Sherlock's gaze, softened with over-exaggerated entreaty, before finally letting out a put-upon sigh. "Fine."

Sherlock gifted him with a smile and returned to his cigarette, smoking with obvious relish. If it would help keep the craving for something stronger at bay, then John wasn't going to complain.

"I suppose I'd better get dressed then," John said, wriggling out from under the covers. "Then we should get some breakfast."

"I'm not hungry."

"Maybe not, but you're still going to eat something," John said firmly.

"Is that an order, Captain?" Sherlock asked in a low voice that, inexplicably, made the hairs at the back of John's neck stand up.

John regarded him for a moment, Sherlock tilting his head up in interest as he returned John's gaze. "Yes it is, Lieutenant," he finally got out.

Sherlock smirked. "Then I'd best not disobey."

Their gazes remained locked for several seconds more, before John forced his eyes away, clearing his throat nervously. "If I'd known the only way to get you to do something was to give you orders, I'd have tried it before now."

Sherlock laughed lowly. "Don't think you can abuse your position, Captain. After all, you're not my commanding officer."

"No, thank heavens. I'm not sure I have a sufficiently strong will to do battle with you," John teased.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. You've given ample evidence to the contrary."

John gave him another surprised look and Sherlock smiled, a slow, soft thing unlike anything John had seen from him to date. John floundered for a moment, lost for words.

"Get dressed," Sherlock said finally, and John jerked into action, taking his clothes from the dresser and setting them uncertainly down on his bed. Sherlock watched him with amusement, then levered himself to this feet, before retreating to his own bed.

John dressed as quickly as he could, cursing his trembling hands and wondering what on earth had come over him. When he finally turned around, he was relieved to see that Sherlock was dressing himself, slowly but quite capably. 

When he was done, Sherlock got to his feet once more and looked over to John. "Shall we?"

John swallowed and nodded, moving to the door and throwing it wide. Hopefully some breakfast and a bit of fresh air would clear his head.

*

They did not venture far from the building; between John's bad leg and Sherlock's frailty, it was slow going as it was, and John was not going to risk them getting stuck. He leaned heavily on his cane, whilst Sherlock kept one hand on the wall circling the building to steady himself. They made their way slowly and in silence, until Sherlock came to a stop at the rear of the building, leaning heavily against a window ledge.

"Are you okay?" John asked with concern. "You haven't over-exerted yourself, have you?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock reassured him, smiling faintly, "I just need a short rest."

John shifted on his feet, his cane mostly forgotten at his side, as he tried to think of something - anything - to talk about.

"Your leg's improving," Sherlock said, breaking the silence.

John looked down at it and grimaced. "Hardly."

"When you don't think about it, it rarely bothers you. It's a truly fascinating case."

Sherlock was watching him, eyes bright with scientific interest, and John found himself blushing again, eyes dropping to the floor. "We've already established that you have unusual taste."

"I have exceptional taste," Sherlock murmured in a low tone, and John's eyes flew to his. It was like looking into a fire sometimes, being drawn in like a moth to a flame. John's breath caught on an exhale, and his next words came out huskier than intended.

"What are you-"

He didn't have time to finish his sentence, mouth snapping shut as a figure appeared in his peripheral vision. Dr. Worthing stopped momentarily, taking them both in before giving them a pleasant smile.

"Good morning, Watson, Holmes."

They replied in kind and Worthing turned his attention to John. "That leg's looking a good deal better today."

John shifted again, his neglected cane scuffing against the ground. "Yes, I... Yes, sir."

"I told you to give it time."

John gave him a weak smile.

Worthing threw another look between them. "Everything alright here? I heard you were under the weather, Holmes. I'm glad to see you're feeling a bit better."

Sherlock frowned, but nodded. "Yes, thank you."

"We were just taking a turn around the building," John spoke up. "Holmes wanted some fresh air."

"Quite right," Worthing said, smiling once more. "Well, I shall leave you to it. I'll see you this afternoon, Watson."

John had forgotten all about his appointment but he nodded briskly anyway. "Yes."

Worthing bade them goodbye and rounded the corner, disappearing from sight. A few seconds passed in silence, then John cleared his throat. "We should head back before you wear yourself out."

He just about managed to meet Sherlock's eye, but looked away again when that pale blue gaze focused in on him. 

"I'm afraid I'm feeling rather tired," Sherlock said, something off in his tone. "I might need your assistance."

"Oh yes, well... Of course."

John forced himself forward and Sherlock reached out to loop an arm through John's, before pushing himself off the wall. He wavered just slightly and John pressed his free hand to Sherlock's chest before snatching it back again quickly.

"Alright?"

Sherlock nodded, his hand squeezing John's arm. 

"Good."

John set his determined gaze on the path in front of them and, somehow, they managed to hobble back round to the entrance without incident, bodies pressed close and arms entwined. By the time they reached their room, John was flushed and disconcerted, and he wanted nothing more than five minutes alone. Sadly, it was not meant to be, and they passed the time before John's appointment in a rather strained silence, John reading his book but making little progress, and Sherlock flicking idly through the newspaper.


	8. Chapter 8

John was distracted all through his session with Worthing, and he considered himself very fortunate that Worthing made no comment and let him go early with an understanding smile. John was glad to escape, but returning to the room was a daunting prospect. 

He had no idea what was going on with Sherlock - with himself - today. Every word and gesture seemed imbued with a hidden meaning, but John didn't know if it was all in his imagination. Sherlock's illness had forced them into a natural intimacy, and John had expected it to wane as Sherlock got better, but if anything it only seemed to be getting stronger.

If John was uncertain of his own emotions, he was even more ignorant of Sherlock's. His moods and behaviour seemed to change hour by hour: at times, he would practically ignore John, but at others, his attention was like a flame licking at John's skin. It was unnerving and unsettling and yet, strangely, exhilarating. It made John's heart beat a bit faster, made every nerve hum into life, expectant and waiting. He just didn't know what it was he was waiting for.

In an attempt at distraction, John decided to head to the dining hall, instead of returning to their room. He was hardly hungry, but he could use the time away from Sherlock. It was so easy to get sucked into a world where there was nothing but Sherlock Holmes.

John sat at a table by himself, but was soon joined by Dimmock and a few other men he did not recognise - newcomers to the hospital, he was sure, judging by their awkwardness. They seemed content to sit in silence at one end of the table as John tried his best to strike up a conversation with Dimmock. 

"Where's Anderson?" John asked out of curiosity. He had no real interest in the man's whereabouts, but he had often seen the two together, and it was as good a topic as any.

Dimmock grimaced, before leaning in closer to answer John in a hushed tone. "Board meeting this morning. He's going back to France."

"Oh," John breathed. 

He had been so removed from reality that he had lost track of the day, and already another Board had come round. Worthing hadn't even mentioned it, but John was clearly a long way from being discharged, so there was no reason to do so. 

"How is he taking it?" John asked.

Dimmock looked around before answering again, his voice even quieter. "Not very well. He'd hoped to get a desk job."

John frowned but said nothing. Returning to the Front always provoked mixed feelings: on the one hand, there was duty, pride, honour; on the other, the knowledge that you could be headed straight to your death. 

"At least he won't be stuck in this place any longer, eh," John said in an attempt at lightness.

Dimmmock gave him a strained smile. "Who'd want to leave such fine dining behind?" He poked idly at the broth in front of him. John smiled thinly, and silence descended once more.

John finished his meal quickly, and returned his plate to the kitchen, stopping to ask the chef for something for Sherlock.

"Is your friend getting any better?" the chef asked in a thick Scottish accent.

"Yes, thank you. Much better."

"Bit of Scottish lamb does everyone good," the chef remarked with a pleased smile, pouring some of the broth into a small bowl.

"Of course," John said politely, taking the bowl as the chef handed it over. "Thank you."

John quickly made his exit, but as he reached the stairs his steps slowed. He honestly did not know what to expect and it made him nervous. Chastising himself silently for his foolishness, he forced himself onwards.

*

The sound of the violin rose up to greet John as he approached their room, making him pause with his hand on the door handle, taking a moment longer to enjoy the music Sherlock created when he was unobserved. The tune was unfamiliar, but stirred up emotion deep in his chest: joy and excitement warring with nervousness. It was the strangest melody he had ever heard, confusing in the way it affected him, and it drew him in.

The door opened silently, but Sherlock still came to an abrupt halt, spinning to face John from his position at the window. His eyes flicked up and down in a quick examination, and then he looked away with a soft smile.

"You were gone so long, I almost thought you'd got lost."

John cleared his throat awkwardly and stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him. "I brought you some dinner."

Sherlock made a vague noise and returned to his violin, coaxing a plaintive note from the strings before launching into a somewhat melancholy tune. John placed the bowl down on the desk, before taking a seat, enraptured as always by Sherlock's playing. 

Sherlock turned towards him, eyes fixing on John's and stealing all the breath from John's body. Sherlock didn't stop playing, but the tune changed, turning into something sweeter, softer. Sherlock's eyes continued to bore into him, and John shifted restlessly on the chair. 

Sherlock finally finished and lowered his bow. John stared at him for several long seconds, before pushing himself to his feet. 

"You should eat your dinner," he said, already turning away, trying to come up with something to do, some pretence to keep his back turned to Sherlock.

"John."

A hand alighted on his arm, drawing him to a gentle halt. 

"It'll be getting cold," John said weakly.

"John," Sherlock said again, amusement leaking into his tone.

Sherlock still hadn't retracted his hand, and John found his focus zooming in on it. He could feel the press of every finger and the warmth of Sherlock's palm, even through the heavy material of his shirt.

"Sherlock?" he finally got out, his voice almost failing him. 

"You know," Sherlock said conversationally, as if the air wasn't filled with an odd tension. "You still haven't answered my question."

"What question?"

"It's a very simple one," Sherlock said softly, and John glanced over his shoulder. Their eyes met and John let out a shaky breath.

"If it's so simple, you should be able to deduce it," he murmured. 

"Not enough data."

"Data?" John echoed.

"Yes, data," Sherlock answered, with a hint of frustration. "You're a mystery, John Watson."

John huffed out a laugh. "Me? I'm a mystery?"

"Infuriatingly so," Sherlock said, his voice softening along with his expression as John finally dared to turn towards him.

"You knew everything about me with one look."

"Not everything," Sherlock said, shaking his head ever so slightly. "There's still so much I don't know."

"Such as?" John pressed, and Sherlock's gaze dropped slowly to his mouth. John's breath caught in his throat, his eyes falling almost unconsciously to Sherlock's lips.

"John," Sherlock breathed, taking a step closer. "Answer my question."

John hesitated for a split second, a fleeting moment of doubt and panic, before he closed the distance between them and pressed his lips to Sherlock's. 

It was only a brief caress, a momentary brush of lips, but when John pulled away, Sherlock was looking at him as if he'd just revealed the secrets of the universe. 

"Data?" John asked with a smile. 

"Data."

Sherlock leaned in and kissed him then, both hands now holding John's arms as John pressed in close. John reached up to cup his jaw, and Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat, before deepening their kiss.

They parted breathlessly a few moments later, Sherlock's expression heavy-lidded and sensual. John brushed his fingers over Sherlock's cheek and his eyelids fluttered.

"This could be very dangerous," John whispered.

"You like danger."

John laughed softly, then reluctantly extracted himself from Sherlock's embrace. Sherlock watched him closely, a faint hint of confusion in his expression. 

"You should eat your dinner," John said. "We'll talk more later."

Sherlock tilted his head. "Is this a dismissal, John?"

"No, no," John hurried to assure him, moving in close again despite himself, one hand hovering near Sherlock's arm. "But you're still not completely well, and I don't want you collapsing on me."

Sherlock scowled. "Nonsense, I'm fine."

"Please," John tried. "Just eat something. For me. Then we can return to... the topic at hand." He cleared his throat, cheeks burning red as Sherlock's scowl transformed into a pleased smirk. 

Sherlock pounced, crowding into John's space and ducking his head until his mouth was pressed to John's ear. "You'll have to work on your blushing," he said in a low, silky voice. "It's very telling."

A beat later, he was gone, pointedly turning his back on John and dropping into the desk chair, leaving John in a state of confused desire. 

*

John fidgeted and paced and then sat down to attempt to read the newspaper while Sherlock ate his dinner at a leisurely pace. John could sense Sherlock's amusement, but refused to acknowledge him, forcing his eyes to stay on the paper, even though his mind was elsewhere. 

He'd kissed Sherlock. There was no going back from that now. It had been a huge risk, but he didn't think he'd misread the situation - and judging by Sherlock's reaction, he'd been right. God, this was madness though. He knew better than anyone just what he was getting himself into. And yet...

Several long minutes later, he heard Sherlock set down his spoon. The chair legs scraped against the floor as Sherlock pushed away from the table, but John refused to give in and look away from his paper. Sherlock's footsteps approached, then he appeared in John's vision, circling the chair to stand in front of him.

John slowly folded the paper and set it down on the small table to his right, before finally raising his eyes to Sherlock's. Sherlock knelt, his hands resting on the arms of the chair, and John was overwhelmed by the urge to reach out and touch, but he held back.

"You've been with another man before," Sherlock stated, and John nodded hesitantly in reply.

"You were a lot younger."

"Eighteen."

"Only women since."

"You deduced all that from a kiss?" John teased, finally giving in to his craving and reaching out to brush his fingers over Sherlock's.

"I'll save the rest of my observations for later," Sherlock answered with a smile, wrapping his fingers around John's.

John swallowed hard and shuffled forward in his seat, his knees either side of Sherlock's torso. Sherlock watched him with a hungry look, his free hand settling on John's leg. John reached out for him, his hand pressed to Sherlock's neck, drawing him in closer.

Their breaths mingled, and John closed his eyes, lost in a heady rush of sensation.

"You're trembling," Sherlock whispered, his breath ghosting over John's lips.

"I'm fine."

"What are you afraid of?"

John let out a helpless, choked laugh. He could not give voice to the emotions clamouring inside his chest: excitement, fear, worry, doubt, confusion, desire. He took a deep breath and let it out again as Sherlock watched him intently. There was something so soft in Sherlock's expression, stripped bare of his usual arrogance, and it gave John the impetus he needed to move.

John closed the distance between them, covering Sherlock's mouth with his own in a desperate kiss. There was nothing controlled about his actions now as he poured his feelings into it, revelling as Sherlock succumbed beneath him, mouth opening at the touch of John's tongue, hands clenching against John's legs.

Once he let go, he was lost. He hadn't even known this man for two weeks, but he was fascinated by him, absorbed in his world. Sherlock had catapulted into John's life and was in the process of breaking down all the walls John had worked so hard to build. There was no hiding anything from Sherlock Holmes; not even this, an attraction like nothing he'd felt before which had bubbled up almost out of nowhere, leaving him powerless.

Sherlock gave a whine and John broke away, breathing heavily. "Shhh," he murmured, pressing his face to Sherlock's. "You have to be quiet."

Sherlock leaned in again, coaxing John into another kiss, his teeth just scraping at John's lip. It was John's turn to let out a moan, his whole body straining towards Sherlock. It wasn't enough, he needed to get closer. His hands went to Sherlock's back, tugging his shirt free of his trousers and sliding his hand over smooth, warm skin. Sherlock let out a low keen, pressing into the space between John's legs.

A knock at the door startled them, and they tore apart, staring wildly at each other. A beat later, John regained his wits and he urged Sherlock to his feet. 

"Bed, now."

Sherlock staggered unsteadily to his bed, John following closely behind. "In, in," John said urgently, even as he headed for the door.

The door opened before he could reach it, and John came to a stop as Bryce looked around the room inquisitively.

"Everything alright?" he asked John quietly, nodding towards Sherlock's bed, where Sherlock was now pretending to sleep. "I thought I heard a moan."

"Nightmares."

Bryce looked at him for a moment, before answering. "Of course. Any better today?"

"Getting there, sir."

"Good. Good."

Bryce did one more quick scan of the room, before making to leave. "Goodnight, Watson."

"Goodnight, sir."

John followed him to the door, and once it was safely shut behind Bryce, he sagged against it, his head pressed to the wood. His heart was pounding in his chest, his whole body slowly relaxing as the tide of panic receded. He heard the creak of bed springs and turned, leaning heavily against the door. Sherlock sat up in bed, his eyes on John, his lips plump and red. 

"That was too close," John said finally, pushing himself off the door. His legs felt like jelly, and he had to steady himself on the dresser. "I really don't want to go to prison," he said, half-serious.

"Likewise. I've already avoided it once, I'd like it to remain the case."

"Prison? You were lucky to avoid a firing squad."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "There's something I haven't told you about the night I deserted."

"What?" John asked.

"I told you I went to a brothel," Sherlock said.

"Yes."

"I may have neglected to mention the gender of the person I passed the time with when I got there." 

"Oh." 

"You can see why my brother was so concerned. His own brother, a known invert. This was worse than the drugs, worse than the desertion - in his eyes at least. It would have truly destroyed the family name." He paused, eyes softening as they met John's. "Well, you know how it is."

"So he sent you here for treatment."

"Yes." 

John bit the inside of his lip. "Do you make it a habit of going to brothels?" he asked carefully.

"What do you think?"

When John said nothing, uncertain, Sherlock pushed himself to his feet and crossed the room, stopping only inches from John.

"No, John," he said, quietly but firmly. "No, I don't make a habit of it. In fact, I rarely indulge in physical intimacy at all." As he said this, he brushed his hand over John's arm. "However, I do, on occasion, make exceptions."

John swallowed hard. "And I'm an exception?"

Sherlock smiled, moving even closer. "Evidently."

"Oh."

"Quite."

Before John could say anything more, Sherlock leaned in and kissed him again. All John could do was follow his lead, reaching out and drawing Sherlock close. He had no idea what would happen, where this would lead, but right here and now, he could not bring himself to care.


	9. Chapter 9

After several nights of dream-free sleep, John had almost forgotten what terror tasted like. The absence of nightmares seemed to have lulled him into complacency and for the first time in a while he woke with an aborted cry, his heart pounding, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. 

Even as he recognised the dark shapes of his room at Craiglockhart, he couldn't banish the images he had seen in his dream: dead men and women and children, piles of them, strewn across the battlefield. There were faces that he knew, and some he had only made up, all of them pale with death, all staring at him with glassy eyes. 

He wiped his eyes, his breath hitching. 

"John?" Sherlock called quietly from across the room. 

Screwing his eyes shut, John pressed his hands to his face, his breath coming fast and hot against his hands. His chest felt like it might crack under the pressure.

"John." A creak of bedsprings and Sherlock's footsteps coming closer. 

"I'm fine," he choked out.

"It was just a dream," Sherlock said, as if that made it any better.

"I know."

He could sense Sherlock hovering over him but could not bring himself to open his eyes, covering his face with trembling hands.

"John," Sherlock said again, uncertainty flooding his voice.

"I'm okay," he got out breathlessly, forcing his eyes open. 

Sherlock was looming over him, concern writ large in his features, his hands suspended in the air between them as if he'd wanted to reach out and touch, but didn't know if it would make things worse. He looked more hesitant than John had ever seen him.

John pushed himself up into a sitting position, trying to bring his breathing back under control. Sherlock still hovered by the bed, so obviously unsure what to do that it successfully distracted John from himself.

"Sit down," he said tiredly. "You're making it worse hanging over me like that."

Sherlock sank to the bed instantly, something like contrition passing briefly through his expression. Several moments passed, neither of them speaking, as John forced himself to take long, slow breaths.

"You haven't had nightmares for days," Sherlock finally remarked.

"No. I've been too tired."

Sherlock gave him a considering look, scientific curiosity beating back his uncertainty. "Fascinating."

John let out a halting laugh, one hand pressed to his chest. The tightness was finally starting to dissipate now, the images banished back to the mire that they'd come from. 

"Did I wake you?" he asked.

"No. I was sorting."

"Sorting what?"

"New data," Sherlock said in a meaningful tone, bright eyes finding John's in the gloom.

"Yes," John got out, his mouth suddenly dry. "I can imagine. Lots of... new data."

They'd retired - reluctantly - to their separate beds around midnight, after an evening spent indulging in long, endless kisses and teasing touches. Just remembering it made John's skin flush with pleasure, and Sherlock gave him a knowing smirk.

Sherlock reached out his hand and drew it slowly over John's shoulder and down his arm. John let out a sigh and closed his eyes, every nerve coming alive with Sherlock's touch. 

"John," Sherlock whispered, moving in close and pressing his lips to John's jaw.

"Are you trying to distract me from my nightmare?"

"Is it working?" 

John allowed himself a fond smile. "Very much so."

He twined his fingers in the hair at Sherlock's nape and drew him into a tender kiss. Sherlock's mouth softened under his instantly, and John hummed against him, coaxing his lips apart. Sherlock moaned, those plush lips giving way easily as John flicked his tongue inside. 

It was still so new, so unfamiliar, but with every kiss, he felt like he was uncovering a little clue to the mystery of Sherlock Holmes. For someone who had seemed to be distant and untouchable in the early days of their acquaintance, Sherlock was surprisingly - delightfully - responsive, his every suppressed moan threatening to destroy John's self-control.

John drew away with a gasp for breath, and Sherlock dipped his head to press his mouth to John's neck. Meanwhile, his hands were insinuating themselves under John's pyjama shirt, cool against John's warm, sweat-damp skin. 

Earlier, John had been all too aware of where they were, and the danger they faced, but now, in the shielding darkness of the early hours, he found it hard to hold back. Desire that had been thrumming under the surface returned full-force, and he drew Sherlock's mouth back to his. Sherlock seemed to sense the change, because he pressed in even closer, until John was forced to lie down. John let out a quiet keen, drawing him close as buried his hands in Sherlock's hair and kissed him hungrily.

They parted for breath, Sherlock's lips just brushing against his, his hair tickling John's forehead. 

"Is this alright?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes. God, yes."

Sherlock smiled and pressed their lips together, teeth just nipping at John's bottom lip.

"The other man," Sherlock rumbled, fingers grazing John's ribs.

"What other man?" John breathed, arching into Sherlock's touch.

"The one you kissed when you were eighteen."

"What about him?"

"Did he only kiss you?"

John opened his eyes and met Sherlock's questioning gaze.

"Why?" he asked, searching Sherlock's face. 

"Don't be obtuse, John," Sherlock growled, the sound going straight to John's groin. 

"I'm no blushing virgin, if that's what you're worried about," John murmured, his heart pounding in his chest as those long, violinist's fingers traced patterns over his sides.

"Is that so?" 

Sherlock didn't give him time to answer, leaning down to kiss him again. John drew him close, revelling in the warmth and solidity of Sherlock's body pressed to his. With their legs now entwined, it was impossible to miss the state they were both in, and John let out a soft whine. Sherlock broke their kiss, lifting himself up on his elbows, his gaze focused intently on John. 

"John, can I-"

"Yes," John panted.

"You don't even know what I was going to say."

"I can guess."

Sherlock smiled knowingly, reaching up to cup John's cheek even as he rocked his hips against John's. John threw his head back, biting his lip as sensation threatened to overwhelm him. 

Sherlock's nose nuzzled at the underside of John's jaw, his lips brushing John's throat, and he moved again, sliding against John with maddening precision. John found his hands twisting in Sherlock's shirt, his whole body straining upwards as Sherlock rolled his hips.

"Oh," John breathed, the friction and the heat perfect. "Sherlock."

"Shh," Sherlock whispered, covering John's mouth with his own. "You have to be quiet."

John kissed him desperately, tongues sliding together as he scrambled to hold on, his hands clenching around Sherlock's hips. Sherlock made a choked noise against his mouth, pressing them impossibly closer. 

They descended into a frenzy, mouths locked together and breath mingling, hands grasping and bodies rocking together. It was messy and imperfect, and yet exactly right, as if they had always been made to do this. John was lost in the push and pull, and the taste of Sherlock, and the little whimpers he made. It wasn't going to take much more to push him over the edge - it had been a long time - and he could feel Sherlock trembling hard against him. As soon as Sherlock tensed against him and made a desperate noise in his throat, John was pulled over with him, his cry muffled against Sherlock's neck, lights flashing behind his eyelids. 

*

"You truly are a deviant," Sherlock mumbled, his mouth pressed to John's shoulder.

John laughed softly. "Not a very consistent one."

He trailed his hand aimlessly over Sherlock's arm. They were still wrapped around one another on John's cramped bed, and John for one had no inclination to move, even with the uncomfortably wet patch in his pyjama bottoms. 

Sherlock hummed. "I hope you think about tonight when you one day come to consummate your marriage with some moderately pretty woman."

John frowned, turning to look at the top of Sherlock's head. 

"We just... did that... And you're talking about me getting married."

"I don't pretend to be a romantic, John. I've known many men who have bowed to convention when the time has come, even if their private desires are quite different."

John let out a huff of astonishment mixed with amusement. "Well, I _am_ a romantic-"

"Obviously," Sherlock cut in, and John laughed.

"Can I finish?"

"If you must."

John smiled and drew his hand over Sherlock's jaw, coaxing him to lift his head and meet John's gaze.

"You are ridiculous."

"Am I?" Sherlock returned with just a hint of a pout.

"Yes," John said, leaning down to capture that lip between his own. "But I like it. I like you. Very much." 

Sherlock froze and drew back to look at John with wide eyes. "You hardly know me," he said in what appeared to be a half-hearted attempt at being dismissive.

"That's not true, is it?"

"Your mind is obviously addled. You find me attractive, and our recent physical intimacy has tricked your mind into thinking it is something more."

John regarded him closely. "Do you sincerely believe that?"

"I'm not a likeable man, John. People like the way I look, and the way I can make them feel, but they don't like me."

"Then they're all fools." John swallowed hard, brushing the backs of his fingers across Sherlock's cheek. "Yes, I find you very attractive. But even before this evening, you were my friend."

"I don't have friends," Sherlock murmured, eyes fluttering closed.

"So you said," John returned, touching his fingers to Sherlock's lips. "You also said I was an exception."

"You are," Sherlock breathed. "I can't explain it."

"Well," John started, moving closer to press his forehead to Sherlock's. "Likewise."

Sherlock's eyes flickered open, bright blue eyes flooded with an emotion John couldn't place; he looked wrecked. John couldn't stop himself from dipping his head to press a kiss to Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock's breath hitched and he drew John in close. 

John pulled away gently, pressing his cheek to the top of Sherlock's head, his eyes drawn helplessly to the lightening sky outside. He let out a sigh.

"You'll have to return to your own bed soon."

Sherlock hummed in response. 

"I wish we were anywhere but here." He couldn't help thinking of the privacy of his own rooms, far away in London, and the comfort of his large bed.

"You really are sentimental sometimes," Sherlock mumbled. "If we ever get out of here, we won't have the kind of freedom you're imagining."

"So what you're saying is we need to make the most of the time we have," John said.

Sherlock lifted his head to meet John's gaze, his expression serious. "You understand the risk you're taking."

"We discussed this," John said with a smile. 

"I don't think you appreciate the gravity-"

"Sherlock," John cut in, taking Sherlock's hand in his. "I understand. Honestly, I do."

Sherlock examined him for a moment. "Harry."

"Exactly. Do you know what they made him do? What he was forced to accept instead of prison?" he asked, anger seeping into his tone. "They took everything from him that made him a man."

"Chemical castration," Sherlock said softly.

"Yes. And then they still expected him to fight their bloody war."

He let out a shaky breath. It had been a while since he'd thought about Harry's treatment so much. It made him feel sick, and the thought of Sherlock going through the same was abhorrent.

"You know all this, and yet you're still here," Sherlock said, half to himself. 

"Sometimes, the reward is worth the risk."

Surprise bloomed in Sherlock's expression, but was quickly chased away by a bright smile. John smiled too, shifting down so that he was on a level with Sherlock.

"I have to get back to my bed," Sherlock whispered with a smile.

"Stay a little while longer."

"Just a little while," Sherlock conceded, leaning in to press his lips to John's.

*

John woke slowly, warm and contented - far too contented to move. There was a comfortable weight around his waist and warmth pressed all along his side, and he turned his head to take in Sherlock's sleeping form. Dark curls spilled over his forehead, endearingly ruffled, and pink, lush lips were only inches from John's, parted slightly as Sherlock slept. John wanted nothing more than to kiss him. 

Reality came crashing down all at once as someone cleared their throat across the room. John's head snapped round to face the door, where Dimmock stood with an embarrassed look and a bright red face.

John sat up quickly, and Sherlock let out an incoherent mumble as he was jostled. John opened his mouth to speak, frantically trying to come up with some excuse, but Dimmock beat him to it.

"I just wanted to let you know that Brock was looking for you," Dimmock said, before adding: "I did knock."

John nodded mutely, eyes wide with panic. Dimmock's expression softened somewhat, and he cleared his throat awkwardly. "We all have bad nights," he said quietly, nodding towards the bed.

John pounced on the pretence immediately. "Yes. One of the worst, last night." He gave a grimace and Dimmock nodded in understanding, his eyes flickering over to Sherlock.

A moment of awkward silence, and then Dimmock spoke up again. "Well, perhaps I'll see you later for lunch."

Dimmock was already turning to leave, but John called out to him. "Dimmock."

He turned back, face still flushed pink.

"You won't... say anything, will you?" John asked carefully.

"No."

John let out a shaky breath. Dimmock gave him a nod, then quickly turned and left, pulling the door shut behind him. John sank to the bed, his hands trembling.

"What's going on?" Sherlock mumbled, clearly still half asleep.

John let out a choked laugh and he could practically feel Sherlock's focus switch on, eyes boring into the back of his head.

"John?"

"We need to be more careful in the future," John got out in a quivering voice.

He felt the bed shift as Sherlock sat up. "Someone was here."

"Yes, and we're lucky it wasn't one of the staff. Just Dimmock."

Sherlock shifted again and John felt his fingers wrap around John's arm. "You're shaking."

"We were careless."

"It won't happen again," Sherlock said firmly. "John, it will be alright."

John nodded absently. "Dimmock said he wouldn't tell. I think he thought it was just... comfort."

"It was just a silly mistake," Sherlock said soothingly, his free hand pressed to John's back. 

"One mistake is all it takes."

Sherlock remained quiet for a moment, then John felt lips press briefly against the back of his neck. "We're far too clever for that. Now, get up and get dressed, before someone else comes along."

John nodded and forced himself to his feet, but the incident had left him truly shaken. They could not afford to be so foolhardy, and he was determined not to let it happen again. He just hoped to God Dimmock was true to his word.


	10. Chapter 10

It turned out Brock had been looking for Sherlock to see if he was well enough for his appointment that day. Sherlock grimaced and attempted to come up with an excuse, but was eventually forced to go along. The room was too quiet without him so John wandered for a little while outside, before making his way to the reading room. It was mostly empty, a few men dotted here and there, and John felt his mouth go dry when he spotted Dimmock sitting at the far end of the room. Their eyes met and John felt himself blushing helplessly. Dimmock gave him an awkward little nod and went back to his book and John, annoyed with himself, threw himself into the nearest chair, his hands shaking as he picked up a newspaper from the table beside him.

He tried his best to focus on the headlines, but if anyone had asked him afterwards what he had been reading, he would have been unable to answer. He had always been a bad liar, that was the problem. He had no skill at concealment, but he could not risk revealing himself now; it would ruin not only his life, but Sherlock's too. 

This was a danger unlike anything he'd faced. The Germans' machine-guns were nothing compared to the outrage, and the resulting punishment, that he would face if anyone were to get even the faintest idea that he and Sherlock were intimate. He was used to fighting things he could see, but this was so very different. His enemy now was a whispered rumour, or the slightest suspicion. It would not take much to set the fire blazing, not now when everyone was so very alive to the possibility - Wilde's high-profile case had guaranteed that. 

Secrecy was now his only weapon, and one he could lose very easily: one moment of carelessness and all would be lost. He could not let affection cloud his judgement again, like it had this morning. In truth, he was surprised Sherlock had not been more sensible, having already narrowly avoided prison once. Perhaps his mind was still not quite as keen as before - John had noticed a fleeting moment of vacancy in Sherlock's expression that morning as he dressed. It was gone a moment later, but it had given John a forceful reminder that Sherlock was not yet completely well. John would have to be cautious enough for the both of them.

He did not even realise how quickly time had passed as he sat lost in his thoughts, until a familiar figure dropped into the seat next to him. He did not even need to look up - his whole body seemed attuned to Sherlock's presence.

"Tedious," Sherlock growled.

John smiled and lowered the paper he had been failing to read, folding it in his lap. 

"It's supposed to help you."

Sherlock gave a huff of annoyance. "It's utterly pointless. Psychiatry is such an annoyingly imprecise science, and even worse when it is practised by those who are barely competent."

John rolled his eyes fondly, well used to Sherlock's complaints about his treatment. "I'm sure Brock looks forward to his sessions with you just as much as you do."

"Oh, he does," Sherlock said seriously. "He thinks I'm a truly interesting case. I think he'd quite like to cut my head open and have a look inside."

John laughed. "Wouldn't we all?"

Sherlock gave him an arch look, and John schooled his expression into something more sombre. "I apologise."

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Anyway, Brock enjoys the fiction I weave for him, and at least it makes the whole thing marginally more interesting for me."

"You mean you lie to him?" John got out incredulously.

"He wants an exciting case, so I give him one."

John laughed helplessly. "You ridiculous man." It came out far fonder than he had planned, and he found himself looking around the room worriedly.

"Let's go into the city," Sherlock suddenly said, and John turned back to him with a look of surprise.

"Why?"

"It's stifling here, I want to go out."

"Alright then."

*

The journey into the city was nothing like before. John hardly noticed the other passengers, caught up in the story Sherlock was telling him. He had noticed, however, that Sherlock hadn't removed his armband this time - but could not decide if it was deliberate, and if so, what meaning it might have. 

They climbed off the bus and wandered with tacit agreement in the direction of Angelo's. Sherlock was lecturing him at length about the many different types of tobacco and what they could reveal about a man, whilst John tried not to smile too much. As soon as they reached the empty alleyways near Angelo's, he stopped trying to fight his smile, and beamed at Sherlock unabashedly.

"Do stop smiling, John," Sherlock commented sharply, although his lips were curving in amusement. "You look quite ridiculous."

"And why shouldn't I smile?" John asked. "I feel quite content."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he still couldn't quite suppress his smile. "Lovesick fool."

John laughed lowly and let his hand brush against Sherlock's. Sherlock briefly wrapped his fingers around John's and squeezed them, before releasing him once more. They shared a smile, and then turned their attention back to the path.

Angelo was as pleased to see them as before and shook hands with both of them whilst grinning broadly. "You're back. So good to see you, Mr. 'Olmes, Mr. Watson."

"And you," Sherlock returned, letting himself be guided to the same table as before.

"I have something very nice for you today," Angelo said proudly. 

John smiled, settling into his own chair. "I look forward to it."

Angelo disappeared towards the kitchen and John turned to Sherlock, who was already pulling out his cigarettes. 

"You could do with a good meal," he commented as Sherlock plucked a cigarette from the tin, and tucked it between his lips. "You're far too thin."

Sherlock smiled coyly around his cigarette as he lit it and inhaled deeply. "You can do a full inspection later if you're so concerned."

John flushed and cleared his throat awkwardly, averting his eyes. Sherlock gave a rich, throaty laugh. "You know, you do a very good impression of a _blushing virgin_."

"Be quiet," John said, finally daring to raise his head once more. Sherlock's eyes were dancing with amusement, even as he let out a thin stream of smoke from between his lips. 

As Sherlock took another drag of his cigarette, John found his attention drawn to Sherlock's mouth. His lips wrapped carefully around the end of the cigarette, his eyes fluttering with pleasure as he drew in a breath. It was a deliberate act of coquetry, even more obviously so as Sherlock formed a perfect O with his mouth as he exhaled. He wanted nothing more than to seal his mouth over Sherlock's and breathe him in. 

"Wine?"

Angelo's interruption was probably a timely one, and John swallowed hard, nodding as Angelo gestured to his wine glass. Sherlock was watching him out of the corner of his eye, smiling. 

"Thank you," Sherlock murmured as Angelo filled his glass.

Angelo left them once more and Sherlock turned to John with a smug smile.

"You're so easily flustered."

"And you are incorrigible. This isn't a game."

"Is it not?"

"No," John said seriously.

"John," Sherlock sighed. "We are as safe as we are ever going to be for the moment. I trust Angelo with my life. Now will you please relax."

"Stop flirting with me then."

Sherlock smiled. "I thought you were enjoying it."

"That's the problem," John murmured.

Sherlock's smile turned into a wide, toothy grin. Underneath the table, John could feel the edge of Sherlock's shoe tracing along the side of his foot and coming to a rest against his ankle. He gave Sherlock a stern look, which Sherlock duly ignored as he reached out for his wine.

John rolled his eyes and picked up his own glass, taking a large mouthful, hoping to steady his nerves. On the one hand, Sherlock's playful mood was a delightful thing to see, but John was still on edge after this morning's incident. He didn't think he'd ever be quite so blasé as Sherlock appeared to be, but then one of them had to be the sensible one. At least most of the time.

He pressed his foot to Sherlock's with a small smile and looked up as Angelo brought in two plates of steaming food. His stomach was already rumbling with anticipation and he tucked in with real enjoyment as Sherlock decided to stop trying to embarrass him and starting telling the story of how he'd once hidden Mycroft's favourite book for a week. 

*

It was getting late by the time they returned, many of the men having already retired for the night, and they made their way silently up to their room, hands brushing, shoulders rubbing. Sherlock went in first and John followed, turning to shut the door behind them. As he turned back, Sherlock crowded him up against it, his hands on John's hips.

"I've been wanting to kiss you all afternoon," Sherlock breathed, his mouth tantalisingly close.

John smiled slyly, raising his hand to the back of Sherlock's neck, his fingers twining in the ends of his hair. 

"I'm not the one who was being deliberately provocative," he whispered, brushing their lips together.

"And yet you still are. Provocative, that is. The way you lick your lips when you're eating is incredibly distracting."

John let out a huff of laughter. "I'll remember that. It'll be useful to-"

Before he could say anything more, Sherlock had covered John's mouth with his own. John tugged him in close and coaxed Sherlock's mouth open with his tongue, tasting wine and tomatoes and smoke. Sherlock's hands flexed around John's hips and he gave a very deliberate roll of his own, his arousal unmistakable. 

They parted for breath and Sherlock pressed his mouth to John's neck, panting warm breath over his skin. "You've no idea the things I'd like to do to you."

"I have a very good imagination," John murmured, tilting his head back as Sherlock sucked the juncture between neck and shoulder.

Sherlock's hand curved around the front of John's trousers and John bit his lip to stifle his groan. "I want to-"

"What?" John gasped, pushing against Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock tore himself away, meeting John's gaze for a moment before dropping gracefully to his knees. John's breath left him as Sherlock leaned in and pressed his face to the straining fabric of John's trousers.

"Oh God."

"Quiet," Sherlock warned him in a whisper, looking up at John from under long, dark eyelashes.

John swallowed another moan as he closed his eyes, almost unable to bear the sight. "You're so beautiful," he got out in a hushed tone, reaching out to stroke his fingers over Sherlock's cheekbone.

He felt Sherlock freeze for a fleeting moment, and then Sherlock was pulling at the fastenings of his trousers and undergarments. John found himself biting down on the side of his hand as Sherlock drew him out gently and then slowly took John into his mouth. John's eyes flew open - he had to look, had to watch as Sherlock rounded his lips, just as he'd done with the cigarette, and swallowed him down. 

Sherlock's mouth was warm and wet and perfect, his lush lips stretched wide, his eyes dark with desire. John was mesmerised by the sight of him, lost in the feel of what he was doing. It seemed so shockingly intimate, so trusting that John hardly dared to move.

The fingers of his free hand wound into Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock gave a muffled moan of pleasure, the vibration only adding to the sensation. John bit down harder on his hand, his head rolling back against the door. His legs were trembling, struggling to hold him up as Sherlock took him apart. 

His climax hit him with unexpected force and he clamped down on his hand, his teeth digging in almost painfully as his whole body jerked. His legs gave way and he slid bonelessly to the ground, his hand throbbing as he let it drop. Sherlock smiled and leaned in to kiss him, and John gasped at the taste of himself in Sherlock's mouth.

"John," Sherlock breathed against his mouth. "Touch me. Touch me."

John reached out with fumbling hands and somehow, between them, they managed to get Sherlock's trousers undone. John slid his hand into the space provided and wrapped his hand around Sherlock's shaft. Sherlock's breath faltered and he caught John's mouth in a hungry kiss, smothering his own moan. 

Within a few firm strokes, Sherlock was tensing against him, a choked noise escaping as he reached climax. John kept stroking until Sherlock collapsed against him, and then slid his hand free. Sherlock pressed his face into John's neck and John stroked a hand over his hair, enjoying the moment. 

Finally, Sherlock sat back on his heels, a beautiful wreck, and met John's eyes. John grinned, prompting a wide smile in return, and then before John knew it, he was laughing. 

"That was mad," he panted.

Sherlock chuckled and leaned in, pressing his mouth to John's as if to swallow his laughter. 

"We're both mad."

"Well, we are in a loony bin," Sherlock pointed out, and that just made John laugh even harder. It was probably just a release of nervous energy, but it took him a long time to eventually calm down.

When he did, Sherlock was watching him with warmth, and he reached out to cup Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock blinked in surprise, but said nothing, and John traced his thumb over Sherlock's jaw.

"Come on," he whispered. "I'd best move before I get stuck down here."

Sherlock smiled and helped him to his feet, stopping to kiss him once they were both standing. "I'll get a cloth," he said, nodding to John's hand, held awkwardly to one side.

John released him reluctantly and they went about getting cleaned up. It was only as they both prepared to get into bed that reality encroached once more. John stood by his own bed, wishing they could stay together but knowing it would be foolish. Sherlock seemed to sense this and drew close, reaching out to rest a hand on John's waist.

"In any case, the beds are far too small to share," he said lightly.

"Of course," John agreed.

"We'll both get a much better night's sleep."

"Yes."

Letting out a quiet sigh, John drew him in close and kissed him softly. "Good night, Sherlock."

"Good night, John."

Sherlock kissed him again and then withdrew, returning to his own side of the room. Their eyes met once more, and then they climbed into their respective beds.


	11. Chapter 11

"You haven't used your cane in three weeks," Sherlock commented. 

They were wandering through the woods adjoining the hospital grounds. The chill in the air promised snow and they were both huddled in their overcoats and hats. In all truth, John hadn't been keen on the idea of a stroll, but Sherlock had insisted, and at least it gave them some time together away from prying eyes.

John looked down at his leg and blinked. "No. No, I haven't." He hadn't been paying much attention, but he realised now that his leg barely hurt as they walked along.

"So I was correct."

"Were you now?" 

"It _was_ psychosomatic. And now you've been amply distracted, you hardly notice it anymore."

"And I suppose you're citing yourself as the source of my distraction?" John teased.

"I think that's fairly obvious, don't you?"

John grinned and shifted closer, nudging Sherlock with his elbow. "And what a delightful distraction you are."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but his lips curved into a faint smile and he walked a little closer, his arm brushing John's shoulder. He cleared his throat and looked out across the woods.

"And you too, John. You have been a most pleasant distraction."

John halted in his steps and Sherlock turned to him, a flush high on his cheeks. It was rare to hear such affectionate words from him, although John didn't doubt that he felt it, and John flushed with pleasure. He quickly scanned their immediate vicinity, and drew Sherlock in by his lapels, pressing their mouths together.

Sherlock let out a little sigh against him and kissed him back tenderly, clasping him by the shoulders. John savoured it and kissed him a moment longer, before pulling away. Words he did not dare speak lay heavy on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them down and sent Sherlock a soft smile.

"Come on, it's freezing. Let's get back."

Sherlock pressed a kiss to his forehead and then drew away, retreating to a respectable distance as they set off down the path again. 

For all their joking, John knew that his improving health was directly tied to their relationship. Perhaps it was indeed the distraction which had succeeded where the doctors had not, but John couldn't help reflecting that it was probably the more negative aspects of the 'distraction' which had consumed him, namely the constant stress of having to hide his relationship; whatever the reason, his leg was better than ever, and his shoulder was improving every day. He would have thanked Sherlock, if he thought it would be received with anything but disbelief and affectionate scorn. 

The main building was warm and welcoming after the cold outside, and they both gave a little huff of satisfaction as they shed their winter layers, climbing the stairs to their room. Sherlock shut the door behind them and turned to John, eyes widening in surprise as John threw his hat and coat on the nearest bed and drew Sherlock in close.

John buried his fingers in Sherlock's hair - wilder and curlier than ever - and dragged him down into a heated kiss, pressing their bodies together. Sherlock's coat fell unheeded to the floor as he sank into the kiss, his mouth softening under John's and opening to allow John to slide their tongues together. John grasped Sherlock's hip with his free hand, fighting the urge to tug him forward.

When they parted for breath, he allowed himself a moment to press his mouth to Sherlock's neck, delighting in the sharp intake of breath as John skimmed his teeth over the tendon. It was with some effort that John finally forced himself away, meeting Sherlock's hungry look.

"Later," he whispered, a familiar refrain, and Sherlock nodded jerkily.

Stolen moments like these were all they could have in the light of day, and John found himself constantly looking forward to lights out, when he could slip into Sherlock's bed - or vice versa - and do all the things he imagined doing during the day. They both took a deep, somewhat shaky breath, and stepped back.

"Lunch?" John asked, consulting his watch.

"If we must."

"Yes, we must," John replied lightly, ignoring Sherlock's scowl. He waited a moment longer to calm himself, and then moved towards the door, Sherlock following behind.

*

"John," Sherlock moaned, a desperate sound.

"Shh," John whispered, covering Sherlock's mouth with his own as he thrust against him, cocks sliding together, both of them slick with spit. Sherlock made a choked noise against him, his hands tightening their grip on John's buttocks, forcing them together at an almost feverish pace. 

John broke their kiss with a gasp, squeezing his eyes shut as pleasure threatened to overcome him. Sherlock mouthed at his collarbone, and John pressed his lips against Sherlock's hair to muffle the sounds he could not suppress. Sherlock urged him closer still, one leg hooked around John's hip.

"Oh God," John groaned, grinding against Sherlock.

"Yes," Sherlock choked out, wrapping both legs around John's middle now, sandwiching them together. "Yes, come on."

John kissed him again, desperation making him clumsy, his teeth catching Sherlock's lip. Sherlock only moaned in response, bucking helplessly. "John."

He could feel Sherlock tensing underneath him, and he thrust harder, faster, until Sherlock threw his head back and shuddered violently, his plump lower lip caught between his teeth to smother the whimpers he struggled to hold back. The sight alone was enough to send John spiralling over the edge and he clamped his mouth shut as his orgasm hit him, his whole body jerking.

Spent and panting, he lowered himself to his elbows, pressing his lips to Sherlock's forehead. Once again, the words lined up at the back of his throat but he forced them down. Sherlock drew a hand up John's back to settle against his neck, holding him close.

John hated this the most, when they had to force themselves apart, neither of them really wanting to, but knowing they had no choice. What made it even worse was that in the moments just before their inevitable separation, Sherlock would cling to him just a little bit tighter, before finally letting him go. 

John drew back, not ready to move away yet, and pushed Sherlock's hair back from his forehead. 

"Look at you," he murmured. 

Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed, emotion washing over his face before it slid once more behind an impassive mask. His voice, when he spoke, came out strained and rough. "Time to move."

"Yes."

John moved away, grimacing at the come plastered over his stomach, and sat back on his heels. He grabbed a nearby terrycloth and wiped himself down, before doing the same for Sherlock. Sherlock hadn't moved an inch and was staring at the ceiling, his expression in that unguarded moment miserable and lost. It wasn't the first time John had seen him like this, and he touched Sherlock's leg, trying to bring him back into the here and now.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock tilted his head to meet John's gaze. "I'm fine."

John didn't bother to contradict him. Sherlock pushed himself up on his elbows, nodding to the tangled mess of their clothes on the floor. "Pass me my pyjamas, please."

John sat on the edge of the bed and handed Sherlock his clothes, before pulling on his own. He did up the last button on his shirt and let his hands fall to his sides. He didn't want to go back to his cold, lonely bed.

"John."

John turned and gave Sherlock a weak smile, reaching out to press a hand to his chest. Sherlock caught John's hand in both of his own and drew it to his mouth, touching his lips to John's palm. 

John closed his eyes, savouring the moment. "I have to go," he finally murmured.

Sherlock sighed and released him with obvious reluctance. John tried to think of something to say to make it better, to soothe the ache, but there were no promises he could give.

"Good night, John."

"Good night, Sherlock. Sleep well."

John forced himself to his feet and crossed the room to his own bed before he could change his mind. Teeth gritted, he climbed into his freezing bed and drew the covers up around his neck. He could hear Sherlock fidgeting from across the room, and a moment later, Sherlock made a noise of annoyance.

"This is ridiculous."

John sighed. "I know."

Silence descended and John dragged his hands over his face, reminding himself that however much he hated the situation, it was worth it - worth it to see Sherlock give a rare, true smile for John's eyes only; worth it to feel his strong grip in the throes of passion; worth it to hear his voice warm with fondness. John had never been so infatuated in his life - except it wasn't infatuation, and that was the hardest part. Safe in the depths of his own mind, he could finally think the words he dared not speak out loud: _I love you, Sherlock Holmes._

*

Christmas was upon them in no time, and John had been given a week's leave to spend with his family. He was due to set off for Surrey the next morning, with mixed feelings: on the one hand, he was looking forward to seeing his parents, but leaving Sherlock would be a strain. The true extent of his reluctance to leave seemed only to reflect just how inseparable they had become in the little time they had known each other. Somehow, the fact that Sherlock had chosen to remain at Craiglockhart made it even more of a wrench. 

"Are you sure you want to stay here?" John asked, threading his fingers through Sherlock's hair. John sat in the chair by the window with Sherlock at his feet, head resting against John's legs, smoking a cigarette. 

"You've met my brother. Do you really think I want to spend Christmas with him?"

John snorted in amusement. "I see your point, but... what about your parents?" he asked carefully - it was not a topic they had ever broached. 

Sherlock's shoulders tensed, and he let out a stream of smoke before answering. "My father's dead."

"I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago," Sherlock reasoned, as if that made it better - perhaps for him, it did.

John squeezed his shoulder in sympathy, letting a moment of silence pass before he spoke up again. "And your mother?"

Sherlock took another long drag on his cigarette before answering. "My mother is unaware of my current situation."

John stilled in surprise.

"She believes me to be in Belgium, and I'm quite happy to keep it that way." He gave a short huff of bitter laughter. "It's one of the only things Mycroft and I agree on."

Sherlock pressed his head back against John's knee in silent supplication and John returned his hand to Sherlock's hair, feeling him instantly relax at the touch. 

"She's not well, you see," he continued. "Nerves. I don't think she would cope, if she knew."

John shook his head, his fingers brushing across Sherlock's forehead. "You could always come with me," he suggested, knowing even as he said it he would be rebuffed.

Sherlock laughed. "Thank you for the offer, John, but I won't impose on your family. Besides, I'm sure you'll appreciate the time away from me."

John curled his fingers around the side of Sherlock's neck. "You don't know me very well if you believe that," he said quietly. "I don't relish the thought of leaving you at all."

Sherlock moved into his hand. "It's only for a week."

"Far too long," John murmured, stroking his fingers over Sherlock's jaw. "It'll be unbearable."

"Sentimental," Sherlock said, but John could tell he was smiling.

"So you won't miss me at all?"

"Quite the contrary," Sherlock replied in a low voice, reaching up with his free hand to wrap his fingers around John's. "I don't quite know what I'll do without you."

John was glad Sherlock could not see him in that moment. If those bright eyes had been fixed on him he would not have been able to hide how much Sherlock's words had affected him. One knowing stare and John would surely have spilled all his secrets. Fortunately, Sherlock didn't seem to notice as he continued to smoke his cigarette, a comfortable silence falling over them. 

Later that night, despite the danger, they lay curled around each other, naked, in John's bed. Sherlock had grown quieter as the evening progressed, and John was also struggling to keep up the pretence that he wasn't dreading the next day. He heaved a sigh and brushed his hand over Sherlock's shoulder, hugging him closer.

"It's only for a week," he said with forced cheer. Seven days had never seemed like an eternity before.

Sherlock said nothing in reply, his breath warm against John's chest. John would almost have thought him asleep if he didn't know better. He pressed a kiss to Sherlock's head and Sherlock leaned into it, before turning over and kissing John hungrily.

"John," he said, catching John's lips between his own, his voice halting. "I want more. I want... I want you."

"I'm here," John said, surprised by Sherlock's sudden desperation.

"No, you don't - you don't understand." 

John coaxed him back far enough to get a look at his eyes, dark with something John couldn't name. "What don't I understand?" he asked softly.

"I want you to take me."

It took a moment for the meaning behind his words to sink in, and when they did, John had to swallow hard. "Sherlock," he started shakily, but he didn't know what to say next.

"John," Sherlock murmured, kissing him again. "I want you inside me."

John was not so stupid to stop and question - Sherlock never did anything without thinking it through - and he dragged Sherlock into a hungry kiss. 

There wasn't much room in the cramped single bed but he managed to flip them, pressing Sherlock into the mattress as his kisses turned gentle. Sherlock arched against him, fingers digging into John's arms. John drew back, locking eyes with Sherlock.

"Do you have... anything?" he got out, his mouth dry even as Sherlock gave him a tender smile.

"Vaseline, in my bedside table."

John stumbled as he made the trip across the room and when he returned, small tin in hand, Sherlock laughed. "I've never seen you so nervous." Sherlock took the tin from him and set it to one side, before pulling John in, his legs splayed either side of John's hips. Sherlock leaned up and pressed his mouth to John's jaw, his hand running down John's spine. 

"Not losing your nerve, are you, Captain?" 

Every hair seemed to stand on end at Sherlock's tone and John took a calming breath before pulling back just far enough to be able to grab Sherlock's wrists and pin them to the bed. Sherlock's eyes flew wide with surprise, then softened into desire as he writhed, deliberately pressing his erection to John's stomach.

"Are you going to behave, Lieutenant?"

For just a moment, Sherlock's composure seemed to falter, and John pounced, dropping to press a kiss to his chest. He released Sherlock's hands and drew a line of kisses down over his stomach, before pressing his mouth to the tip of Sherlock's cock. Sherlock bucked underneath him, one hand grasping at John's hair. 

"John."

John drew him in slowly, tongue flicking over heated skin, and Sherlock let out a stuttering breath. He was so beautifully responsive to this, once John had got the hang of it, and John would have stayed there all night, but the weight of what was to come drew him away when Sherlock's breath started to hitch.

"What... What do I do?"

"I-I'll show you."

Sherlock sat up a little and John sat back on his heels, his own neglected cock hanging heavy between his legs. Sherlock scrambled to fetch the tin and unscrewed it, smearing his fingers through the grease. He met John's gaze and then reached down between his legs, his eyelids fluttering at the first touch. 

John was absolutely enthralled, watching, rapt, as Sherlock worked a finger inside himself. Sherlock gasped at the breach, his hips rocking slightly. John's eyes flicked to his face, flushed and open. 

"You like this," he whispered, and Sherlock nodded, unabashed.

He looked back down as Sherlock withdrew his finger and took hold of John's hand, drawing it towards him. John shared a brief, panicked look with him, but Sherlock moved John's fingers - two of them - into the right position and gave him a quick nod. When his fingers pressed inside, John let out a little choked moan and Sherlock hissed out a 'yes', throwing his head back. After a moment of stillness, he dared to move his fingers, withdrawing them slightly and pushing back in again, as Sherlock had done, and was rewarded with a desperate cry from Sherlock, who quickly covered his mouth with his hand.

"Sherlock."

"Now, now," Sherlock panted. 

John hurried to obey, shaking hands smearing the jelly over his cock, as Sherlock spread his legs even further.

"John," he growled.

"Yes, yes."

Propped up on one hand, John positioned himself at Sherlock's entrance, his heart pounding. Sherlock pressed a heel to his back, urging him forward, and John took a deep breath and pressed in. Sherlock, impatient as always, dragged him forward, until John was seated fully inside him, and then pulled him into a desperate, biting kiss. 

John was overwhelmed with sensation, with emotion, but there was no time to stop and acknowledge it now - Sherlock had a punishing grip on his hips and was guiding John to move, letting out helpless moans against John's mouth. John dropped to his elbows, his chest pressed to Sherlock's as he mouthed at Sherlock's collarbone. Sherlock tightened his legs around John's waist, and urged John back into a kiss with one hand on the back of his neck.

John broke away, forehead pressed to Sherlock's, their gazes locked. Sherlock was flushed and sweaty and had never looked more handsome. His mouth fell open in pleasure and John shifted slightly as Sherlock squeezed his hand between them to wrap around his cock. They shared a look and John thrust harder, Sherlock's hand moving frantically between their bodies. 

"John."

"God," John moaned, biting his lip and closing his eyes. He didn't think he could hold on much longer. Sherlock made a delicious noise and John forced his eyes open again, his gaze finding Sherlock's. 

"Are you..." 

Sherlock nodded, his back arching.

"God, Sherlock." John rested his forehead against Sherlock's, letting all the feelings he had stamped down on flow freely. "I love you."

Sherlock froze, but a heartbeat later he tensed and threw his head back, his muscles contracting around John. John let out a cry as he followed helplessly, pulsing inside Sherlock.

After a long pause, Sherlock shifted and John pushed himself up on his elbows. Sherlock fixed him with a slightly dazed look, and John watched as he swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"Did you mean it?"

"What do you think?" John countered in a soft tone.

Sherlock swallowed again and closed his eyes, leaning up to press his face to John's. "I... love you too."

John felt choked, unable to speak, and he caught Sherlock's lips in a tender kiss, one hand reaching up to cup Sherlock's cheek. He pulled away and pressed his mouth to Sherlock's hairline, a laugh bubbling up in his throat.

"I'll miss you," he whispered.

"And I you. But you'll be back in a week and then we'll make up for lost time."

Sherlock gave a deliberate wriggle underneath him and John smiled warmly, drawing back to look at him. 

"That sounds like an excellent plan."


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry it has taken this long to update. It was a mixture of writer's block and being really busy in RL, but it's done, finally. I hope the next update will be much sooner. Thank you if you're still reading :-)

Much as John enjoyed spending time with his family, the week seemed endless. By the time he'd bidden goodbye to his tearful mother in the grey, early-morning light, he felt as if a lifetime had passed since he'd left Craiglockhart. He was itching to get back, to see Sherlock again. The week away had only served to reinforce what he already knew: he would struggle to be parted from Sherlock, when the time came. He had slept fitfully, waking in the night not from nightmares but from a feeling of aching emptiness, a knowledge that something was missing. 

Sherlock would probably laugh to hear such fanciful rubbish, although secretly he'd be pleased. John could just imagine his laughter giving way to a soft smile, his eyes bright as he drew John in close. His body threatened to betray him at mere thought of Sherlock's closeness and he crossed his legs, turning to look out at the grey sky beyond the train's window. It was some hours until he could be alone with Sherlock once more and he felt as if every bone in his body was yearning for it, as if a magnet was pulling him north, back to the centre of his world. He shook his head, smiling wistfully at himself. He really was turning into a soppy old fool.

The train pulled into Edinburgh Station at just past five. John was already on his feet before it came to a stop, stretching to retrieve his battered wooden case from the rack above the seats and letting himself out of the compartment. He hurried down the thin corridor, reaching the door before any of the other passengers had even had a chance to move. As soon as the conductor opened the door, he was out onto the platform, heading for the exit. 

It was a short walk to the bus stop and the bus which passed Craiglockhart was just pulling in as he arrived. He joined the short queue then shuffled onto the bus, taking a seat near the front, his case wedged in between his legs. For once, he paid no heed to the looks attracted by his uniform and its telling white armband - his gaze was trained out of the front window, watching the familiar road. He practically jumped out of his seat when the bus reached his stop, and clambered out as soon as the door was open, calling a 'thank you' behind him. 

Craiglockhart rose up before him at the end of the long drive, a grey-brown monolith against the dreary-looking sky. He let himself in through the heavy door, warmth greeting him as he shrugged out of his overcoat, draping it over his arm. As odd as it sounded, he felt like he was home. He took the steps two at a time, his heart pounding in his chest and his mouth stretching into a smile as he reached the landing. He paused for just a moment at their door, hoping for at least a little composure, then pushed it open.

The room was empty. 

A frantic look around confirmed that Sherlock was not there, but it was more than that: Sherlock's bed was stripped of bedding and there was no sign of any of his belongings. John moved to the bedside table and found that empty too. The drawers were missing all but his own things. 

Stumbling to his own bed, John sank down onto it with a confused frown. Where had Sherlock gone to? He felt numb, a sense of foreboding tightening his chest and making it difficult to breathe. He couldn't explain his reasoning, but he was certain that something bad must have happened.

It was then that he spotted an envelope propped up on his bedside table. He scrambled to pick it up, his own name scrawled across the front in Sherlock's distinctive hand. He ripped the envelope open, pulled out a single sheet of writing paper, and began to read.

_Dear John,_

_I have only a moment to write this short note, for I am to be moved to a more appropriate location for treatment. I sincerely regret that I am unable to take my leave in person, but I wanted to thank you for your kindness. I wish you every health and happiness._

_Sincerely yours,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

*

John gripped the letter in both hands, helplessly searching for clues within the four lines of scratchy handwriting. He could not take in what had happened, his brain refusing to accept that Sherlock was gone. There must have been some kind of mistake. 

Sherlock's short message gave nothing away. In fact, if it weren't for Sherlock's unmistakable scrawl, John could easily have believed the letter had been written by anyone. There was no particular affection to be read in the space of three sentences, no sign that they were anything but acquaintances. The formality sat like a weight in John's stomach, until he gained enough sense to berate himself for expecting anything different: it would not have been safe to stray into softer emotions in a letter that could be read by anyone. 

John set it down beside him on the bed and ran a hand through his hair. He'd had such different expectations for this evening; had spent the entire week daydreaming about their reunion, and he struggled to reconcile this with the empty room that had greeted him. He felt Sherlock's absence deep in his chest, and in a moment of confusion, he thought himself lost in a nightmare 

Voices just outside the door jolted him back to reality just as someone rapped on the wood. The door opened before he could form an answer, and Bryce gave a slight start as he spotted John, but moved into the room nonetheless, a young, wide-eyed man following him.

"Ah, Watson, you're back. This is Chivers. He'll be your new roommate."

John forced himself to his feet to shake the younger man's hand. The situation felt unreal: this caricature of a young man torn apart by anxiety, Bryce's nonchalance. John wasn't entirely sure this was not a figment of his imagination.

"This is your bed," Bryce told Chivers, waving towards the far side of the room - towards Sherlock's bed. "Mrs. Smythe will bring up sheets and whatnot shortly."

Chivers moved to the bed and hesitantly perched on the edge. John bit his lip to stop himself from crying out 'no' at the invasion of Sherlock's space. 

"I'm sure Watson here will be at hand if you have any questions," Bryce added, turning expectantly towards John. John swallowed dryly and stretched his mouth into a polite smile. "I'll let you get settled in," Bryce continued, "And then we'll talk again tomorrow."

"Yes, sir," Chivers answered meekly. Bryce gave him a firm nod and then made for the door.

"Sir," John called out, and Bryce halted at the door. "Might I have a word with you? In private?"

Bryce gave him a curious look, then raised his chin slightly. "Of course. I'll be in my office."

Bryce left and John turned back to his new roommate. A moment of awkward silence followed, and John cleared his throat. 

"The top drawers are available for you to use. And there's a water closet just through there."

Chivers gave him a slightly bewildered look. John swallowed past the lump in his throat and gave the young man his best attempt at a friendly smile. "I'll be back in a little while. Make- make yourself at home."

John left the room, striding along the corridor and down the stairs. His ears were ringing as he knocked on Bryce's door, then entered upon Bryce's command. Bryce gestured for him to close the door, then sat back in his chair, hands crossed in his lap.

"How can I help you, Watson?"

"I wanted to ask you about Sher- about Holmes."

"Ah yes, I suspected as much. A strange business, all told."

"What happened?" John asked, his voice strained.

"Edict from on high," Bryce started with a slight frown. "All I know is that Holmes's brother came to visit, and the next moment I was being informed that the younger Holmes was to be moved."

"May I ask why, sir?" John asked, his mind whirling. He should have known Mycroft Holmes was involved. 

"I'm afraid I don't know," Bryce said. "I'm sure Mr. Holmes had his reasons. We're already stretched for space, and the younger Holmes had made enough progress that I did not believe transferring him would be detrimental, therefore I chose not to question the decision. Wherever he has gone, I am sure Sherlock Holmes is in very good hands."

John bit his lips, his hands clenched into fists. 

"Do you know where he is now?" John asked, fighting to keep his tone even.

"No," Bryce said. He gave John a long look, then sat forward. "In any case, what's done is done. You were a good friend to Holmes, but now you must focus on your own recovery."

Bryce gave him a warm smile. "Dr. Worthing tells me your health - both mental and physical - is greatly improved."

"Yes, sir," John answered mechanically.

"You'll be before the Board in no time then."

When John said nothing, Bryce soldiered on. "It'll do you good to be back where you belong."

John nodded weakly, his mouth too dry to form an answer.

"Well then," Bryce said, clapping his hands together. "Was there anything else?"

"No, sir," John got out. He dragged himself to his feet. "Thank you, sir." He straightened his spine, and spun on his heel, heading towards the door at a quick march.

*

John lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The room was silent but for the soft sounds of Chivers snoring, but even that was drowned out by the pounding of his own blood in his ears and the tumult of his thoughts. He could barely make sense of the tangled web of theories flitting across his mind. 

The facts were thus: Sherlock had left Craiglockhart for some unknown location, most likely at his brother's orders. Why he might have acquiesced to what John hoped was an abhorrent idea was unclear, as was Mycroft's motive for taking action now, when his brother's health was in fact much better. John's only solace was that, in contrast to Sherlock, he truly believed that Mycroft only wanted what was best for his brother. If that meant removing him from his only friend, his lover -

John's thoughts stuttered to a halt as an unshakeable idea sprang into life. Mycroft knew their secret. Somehow, he had discovered the true nature of his brother's relationship with John and had taken the only action he could to rectify what he no doubt saw as a continuation of previous bad habits. As he turned the thought over in his mind, John couldn't help but think it must be true: what little he had seen of the elder Holmes had shown he was just as clever as Sherlock, just as observant, and with the added insight of a sibling, he had probably seen it from the moment he set eyes on his brother. They had been foolish to think they could have hidden for any length of time.

On further reflection, it seemed the only explanation for what had happened - and an even better justification for Sherlock's formal-sounding note: his brother had probably been standing watch. John could see the scene before him easily: Sherlock's scowl as he hastened to scribble a letter, Mycroft's pinched expression as he loomed over his younger brother, hurrying him along. It made him smile, even as he felt like he was being torn in two. He couldn't stop thinking that if Mycroft had forced them apart - if the British Government wanted them separated - how could they ever see each other again? 

The thought drove John from his bed to stand at the darkened window, his head pressed against the cold glass. His mind was spinning, his stomach churning with the growing horror of what had happened - and his own powerlessness to change it. He felt restless, uneasy, his fingers twitching at his sides. The need to act - to do something - was strong, making it difficult to stand still; it was only the presence of his sleeping roommate that stopped him from pacing the floor. Sherlock probably wouldn't have cared, and would have proceeded to make as much noise as he liked.

The thought sent a pang through him, and desperation came creeping back in. Where was Sherlock now? Another hospital, or a facility where he could be properly 'cured'? John shuddered at the idea, nausea rising in the back of his throat. If Sherlock had any indication about where he might end up, why had he gone willingly? Assuming, of course, that he had indeed gone without protest. Sherlock couldn't usually be compelled to do anything he didn't want to, but that didn't completely rule out the possibility of duress. John could not deduce what had happened, and it left him feeling lost. 

Tormented by his own mind, sick to the stomach with hopelessness, John finally returned to his bed, tossing and turning until exhaustion eventually claimed him. 

*

The next morning brought little peace for John's troubled mind. He woke from dreams of Sherlock being dragged out of reach, only to find that reality was just as bad. He washed and dressed in a daze, and it was only when Chivers bade him good morning that he remembered he was not alone.

"Good morning," he got out. 

"I was wondering... about breakfast..." Chivers started hesitantly.

"Oh yes," John cut in. "I apologise. You can get breakfast down in the dining hall from seven until about nine." 

His pocket watch told him it was already gone eight. "I can... I can show you the way, if you like," John offered. He was feeling too heartsick to eat, but felt compelled to show the poor boy the ropes.

They headed downstairs, and John introduced Chivers to a few of the men he knew. Chivers seemed a lot livelier in company, and he was soon chatting away with some of the younger men, talking animatedly about cricket or some such. John paid little attention to the conversation and soon managed to slip away back to the room. He half expected Sherlock to be sat at the desk - as John had found him so many times before after breakfasting alone - and when instead he was met by an empty room, he had to swallow hard around the lump in his throat.

He sank into the desk chair, folding forward to rest his head on the wooden surface and closing his eyes. For a moment he could hardly breathe, his chest tightening painfully as he drew in a ragged breath, and he forced himself upright once more. He threw his head back, fighting back a wave of emotion as he sought to steady his breathing. He needed something to distract him, and he opened the small compartment in the desk, pulling out a collection of papers half-covered in his writing - his numerous failed attempts at penning something for the magazine.

He spread them out in front of him, and it was then that he noticed an anomaly: a line of writing that was not his, scribbled at the top of one of the sheets. Sherlock's handwriting was even more cramped than usual, and it was evident this had been written in a rush, but it was clear enough for John to read the three simple words:

_221b Baker Street_

It was a reminder of a conversation from the very early days of their acquaintance, a promise to meet after the war, and John felt his heart pound at the memory. Sherlock had left this here for him to find, an additional message that John didn't realise he had needed until he saw it in front of him - clear proof that Sherlock planned to see him again, that he didn't want this separation to be permanent.

John laughed, pressing his fingers to the paper. _Yes, I'll see you there,_ he thought to himself, determination settling into his heart, But I'll be damned if I'm going to wait until the end of the war. 

He had to get to London, and there was only one way to do that - he would have to pass the Board and be discharged for active duty. He would be sent back to France, but they would give him a week or so to sort himself out and that was all he needed. He straightened his chin, his lips curving into a smile. For the first time that day, he felt something other than crippling helplessness. He was going to find Sherlock, to see him in the flesh, if only for a moment; he was going to show Mycroft Holmes that not even the British Government could keep them apart forever.


	13. Chapter 13

John had never put much conscious thought, or effort, into his recovery. Before Sherlock, he hadn't been sure he would ever heal from his injuries, but then everything had changed: although his shoulder still pained him at times, his leg had improved dramatically. It was madness to think that the force of someone's personality - even one as remarkable as Sherlock's - could affect his health so drastically, but John had no doubt that if he'd never met Sherlock, he would still be hobbling along with a cane to this day. It seemed impossible, but the fact remained that he had regained normal use of the limb - now he just needed to build up his strength and agility once more.

He went on long walks almost every day, pushing himself further and harder each time. Some days he felt so buoyed by his performance that he was on the verge of marching straight to the train station and getting on the next train to London. Only the knowledge that it would do no-one any good if he risked a run-in with the military police stopped him at the edge of Craiglockhart's grounds and turned him back towards the building.

As well as the obvious benefit to his health and fitness, the long walks served another purpose: the longer he was away from the room, the less he was confronted with his memories. Every single thing in the room evoked visions of Sherlock that threatened his composure, and so it was easier to stay away, to focus instead on the task he had set himself, and on the promise of reunion. It wasn't long before the only time he spent in the room was in the evenings, just before bed, although even then he did all he could to delay.

Night was setting in when he finally returned to his room, tired after a day spent finding any occupation to prolong his absence. Chivers was nowhere to be seen as John entered, and he was glad for the chance to be alone: it gave him a moment to gather himself together, to reconcile himself to the fact that Sherlock was not there, frowning at him from the bed or lost in thought in the chair by the window. He took a deep breath, let it out, then forced himself to move, crossing the room to sit at the desk.

He drew a stack of well-used papers from the drawer and set them down in front of him, his eyes skipping over his cramped, somewhat messy handwriting. His attempts at composing something for the magazine were long-forgotten, and instead what lay in front of him were the desperate attempts of a heartbroken fool to commit Sherlock Holmes to paper: he'd taken to writing down every story Sherlock had ever told him.

He could not recall what had compelled him to sit down one evening and write up one of the first cases Sherlock had described to him: 'The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet', as he had dubbed it. He had been surprised by the amount of detail his mind had retained, and once he'd finished writing that story, he'd written another: he called this one 'The Adventure of the Speckled Band'. A week on, he now had five tales meticulously transcribed - five pieces of Sherlock forever immortalised - and the ache in his chest had lessened just a bit.

He smoothed a thumb over the top sheet of paper, smiling slightly to himself. At that point, the door opened, startling him slightly, and he turned to greet his room-mate. "Evening, Chivers."

"Sir."

John smiled. "What have I told you about that? You really needn't call me 'sir'."

"Sorry, si- Watson." 

Chivers moved into the room, perching on his bed and looking over at John.

"W-writing again?"

John cleared his throat, embarrassed, and gave a jerky nod before pushing the papers out of sight once more.

"How was your day?" John asked, hoping to draw the conversation onto safer topics.

"Fairly dull," Chivers answered with a hesitant smile. "A group of us are off to play golf tomorrow, if you're interested."

"Not really my cup of tea," John explained. "And in any case, I've got an appointment with Dr. Worthing."

"I see. And... I hope you don't mind my asking... do you think he'll recommend you for the Board?"

"I would imagine so."

Chivers' lips curved into an uncertain smile. "You'll be glad to get back, I suppose."

"I'm sure we all will," John answered carefully. 

"Of course, yes."

The conversation drawing to a natural close, Chivers occupied himself with his book, leaving John to his thoughts. 

He had little doubt that Worthing would pronounce him fit for the Board - his exercise regime hadn't escaped anyone's notice. In addition, the nightmares - at least the ones about the war - had ceased long ago, and John would not be explaining that they had been replaced with dreams that were even more terrifying: dreams where Sherlock was subjected to all sorts of treatments while John watched on helplessly; dreams where he found Sherlock, only to see him dragged away to prison; dreams where Sherlock was shot by a firing squad that John directed. His mind had become quite adept at creating images that seared into his mind and remained there long past the point of waking.

The fact of the matter was, he was well enough to perform his duties and, more importantly, he was skilled enough to cover up the areas of his mental health which might cause concern. He had to be out of Craiglockhart within the month - it had already been weeks since Christmas, and he couldn't waste any more time. He would be the model patient tomorrow, and at the Board, and they'd have no choice but to send him away, via London and, hopefully, Sherlock.

*

"And the leg... does it pain you at all?" Dr. Worthing asked.

"Very rarely, sir."

"Excellent, excellent," Worthing mumbled, making a note.

"And your shoulder?"

"Much better, sir."

Worthing made a pleased noise and jotted down something else.

"You really have improved at an astonishing rate," Worthing said. "You're a model for the men here, you really are."

"I want to do my duty, sir. And that requires me to be in France, not here."

"Of course, of course." Worthing looked even more pleased. "Now, to turn to matters of the mind. Do you have nightmares?"

"No, sir. I sleep like a baby most nights."

"Yes, a good walk does that," Worthing said, mostly to himself, as he scribbled another note. "And you've no other issues? I notice you haven't stammered in weeks."

"No, sir," John said, sitting up a little straighter. "The fact is, sir, I feel much better. I feel like myself again."

Worthing finally placed his pen down and regarded John with a kindly expression. "I'm so glad to hear it, Watson. By all accounts, your men will be thrilled to have you back."

"So what happens now?"

"I'll submit my recommendation to the Board for consideration. You'll be called before them at the end of the month and asked a few questions." Worthing gave a vague wave of his hand. "As long as there are no issues, they'll make their decision, which I fully expect to be a return to active duty."

John let out a discreet sigh of relief. "I'll be very glad of it, sir."

"Jolly good." Worthing clapped his hands together. "Well then, I'll start my report this instance."

John rose to his feet. "Thank you, sir."

"No, thank you, Watson," Worthing said cheerily, rising to his feet and holding out his hand. "I wish all of my patients were as easy to treat as yourself."

John gave him a faint smile and shook his hand firmly. "I was very lucky to have such a capable doctor."

Worthing flushed with the praise, but then forced himself to composure. "Come along then. Good afternoon to you, Watson."

"Good afternoon."

John took his leave and walked straight out into the cool air, his heart thundering in his chest, his face splitting into a wide smile. One step closer to Sherlock.

*

"The Board recommends that you be returned to active duty," Brock announced as head of the committee. "Do you have any questions?"

John shook his head. "No, sir."

"Good. We'll make arrangements for your travel. You should be leaving tomorrow, with any luck."

"Thank you, sir."

"Dismissed."

John turned on his heel and left the room, struggling to remain at a sedate pace as he climbed the stairs and finally ducked into his room. Chivers was out for the day, and John sagged against the door, letting out a choked noise that was part-relief, part-joy as he sank to the floor. 

"I'm coming," he murmured, closing his eyes and picturing Sherlock before him. "I'm coming."

A laugh broke free from his chest, echoing around the room, an alien noise in this place of suffering. He felt lightheaded and dizzy with the knowledge that he was finally leaving, that he had managed to succeed in step one of his plan. There was still so much more to go, so many problems he might yet face, but for now he was buoyed up with excitement, ready to take on anyone or anything.

He pushed himself to his feet and crossed to his bed, dragging his battered suitcase out from underneath it and opening it up. He had few belongings and it didn't take long to pack everything but the essentials into the case. He left it open and moved to the desk, pulling out his papers and flicking through them until he found the one that was even more dog-eared than the rest, the one he treasured more than the others. He smoothed his thumb over the three words - Sherlock's address - and grinned. He may not know where Sherlock was, but this was where he would start and he would keep going until he found Sherlock.

The threat of court-martial was high: he'd been given only five days' furlough with which to travel to London and bid his family goodbye. If he did not report for duty on the sixth, he would be sought out, and would have to face punishment. It was a risk worth taking, though, if it meant he could at least see Sherlock. He had only one intention: to make it clear that whatever happened, Sherlock was still in his heart, in his mind, and if he was lucky enough to return once the War was over, he would return to Sherlock. 

By the time evening set in, John was agitated and restless, unable to settle to a task for more than a few minutes. Chivers obviously took it to be a result of nerves, rather than anticipation, and made no remarks about John's strange behaviour - instead, he tried his best to distract John with conversation and, when that failed, card games. 

John was currently losing their game of gin rummy, but he couldn't care less. All he could think about was what he would do as soon as he got to London.

"Your turn," Chivers prompted him. 

"Sorry," John said distractedly, taking a card from the top of the pile and slotting it into his deck, before discarding another.

"You'll be going to see your family first, will you?" Chivers asked politely.

"I don't think my mother would forgive me if I didn't," John commented, and Chivers laughed lightly.

"Well, that will be nice."

John hummed in agreement, watching as Chivers made his move and trying not to let his mind drift off again. 

"Do you have any siblings?" Chivers asked.

"No," John said quietly. "My brother was killed a few years ago."

"I'm sorry," Chivers said, before adding after a short pause: "Mine too."

"Was he older than you?" John asked, regarding his roommate with sympathy.

"Yes." Chivers nodded, his eyes never leaving the cards. "Your turn."

John took his turn, his eyes flicking to Chivers, once again struck by just how young his roommate was. So many young men sent to slaughter, sent to suffer. He shook himself out of his thoughts with some effort.

"Well, since we've neither of us got any siblings, you'll have to write to me," John said pleasantly. "I'll be awfully bored at times and I'd appreciate reading about something other than my mother's jam-making."

Chivers smiled shyly. "Okay, I will."

"Good. I look forward to it."

They continued their game in easy silence, although John found his thoughts wandering despite his best efforts. He couldn't help wondering where Sherlock was at that exact moment, and what he was doing - was he alone? Or did he at least have company of some sort, like John? John wasn't sure Sherlock would care either way, but it made him feel better to imagine that Sherlock had someone to talk to - if Sherlock chose to speak to them, of course. The thought made him smile, and Chivers had to prompt him again when it was his turn, jolting John out of his thoughts and drawing him back to reality. 

Eventually, at about eleven, they gave up for the night and prepared to retire. John changed into his pyjamas and got into bed, drawing the thick covers up around his neck. He closed his eyes and imagined the weight of an arm over his stomach, a head pressed to his shoulder as curls tickled his nose. 

_Soon_ , he thought to himself, and smiled into the darkness. _Not long now._


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is gone, and John is determined to find him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update has been far too long coming, so I apologise profusely! Only part of my excuse is no internet for the last 7 weeks :-s If you're still reading, thank you so much and I will try my best to bring you another update soon.

The sky was starting to darken as John turned onto Baker Street. The street was eerily quiet, only a few people shuffling along the pavement - women, for the most part, on their way home from work. One woman made eye contact as he passed and smiled warmly. He returned her smile but kept walking; he'd forgotten the attention a uniform - minus the invalid's armband - could bring with it, and wondered now if he should've changed first. Never mind, there was no time, because 221b was looming into view, and John's heart felt like it might pound out of his chest.

It was a tall, thin building, one of several identical ones in the terrace, only the shiny brass numbers on the doors to tell them apart. He came to a halt before the black door of 221 and looked up at the dark windows above him, dread sinking into his stomach. What if there was no-one home, no-one to help him move one step closer to finding Sherlock? 

Shaking himself a little, he reached up and knocked on the door. He had to try, at least. He had come all of this way, and he wasn't going to stop now. There was only quiet behind the door for several long moments, but just when John was about to give up hope, he heard shuffling, followed by the sound of someone unlocking the door. He held his breath as the door finally moved, light spilling out into the street as an older lady peeked around the edge.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"I... Is this Sherlock Holmes' residence?"

"Yes."

"Is he at home?" John asked, his heart in his throat. 

"I'm afraid not, sir."

He let out a shaky breath. Of course it had been too much to expect Sherlock to be here, but it hurt nonetheless.

"Do you know where I might find him?" 

"He's away, sir," she explained. "I'm terribly sorry. You can always talk to the Police, of course."

It took a moment for John to understand her comment. 

"Oh, no," he explained. "I'm not a client. I'm a... a friend."

The lady gave him a puzzled look and he smiled. "Truly. My name is John Watson. We became acquainted in Scotland."

Her eyes brightened and she reached out for him, surprising him with the strength of her grip. "John Watson?"

"Yes, that's me."

She made an excited noise and pulled him forward. "Quick, you'd best come in."

She hustled him into the foyer, then stepped back to look at him, smiling widely. "I'm so glad you came."

"You are?"

"Mr Holmes said you would, but I didn't know what he was going on about."

"He said - When did you last see him?" 

"Just after Christmas," she explained. "Come on, come and sit down and I can tell you everything I know."

John was in an agony of anticipation but he let himself be led up the stairs to a sitting room that was unmistakably Sherlock's: stacks of book lay scattered about the place, the table was covered in papers, and there were all sorts of strange specimens in jars dotted around the place.

"I apologise for the mess, Mr. Watson."

"No, really, it's no bother," John said, smiling. "I've always been curious about Sherlock - about Mr Holmes' living quarters."

She laughed lightly. "He won't let me touch a thing to tidy it up, even just a little bit."

John grinned, warmed with the memory of the mad, brilliant genius he was in love with. Standing here in Sherlock's house was enough, for now, to calm his agitated nerves, but there was still some way to go.

"Sit down," the older lady said, gesturing to a nearby chair. "Can I get you any tea?"

"No," John interjected quickly, impatient to hear what she knew. "Thank you, Mrs..."

"Oh, I haven't introduced myself, how terrible of me. I'm Mrs. Hudson, Mr. Holmes' housekeeper."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Hudson."

"And you too, Mr. Watson. I've been waiting some time to meet Sherlock's friend." She gave him a long look, but it was not an unfriendly one. 

"You... You said you'd last seen him just after Christmas?"

"Yes. He came to collect some things, with his older brother." She pursed her lips in displeasure. "I knew something was wrong, though nobody would tell me what. He was so quiet."

John twisted his hands together, struggling for calm. 

"He was only here very briefly," she said sadly. "But we had a moment alone, to say goodbye. Again." She gave a little sniffle but soldiered on. "He slipped a note into my pocket, said his friend from Scotland would come and get it. I'd very nearly given up hope that you'd come."

She smiled and went into a nearly-invisible pocket tucked into the side of her dress and pulled out a scrap of folded paper, clearly torn from the edge of a newspaper. 

"Here."

John took the paper with sweaty hands. His name was scribbled on one edge and he scrabbled to open it, casting his eyes over the contents. 

_Victoria, homeless network, Trafalgar Square. SH_

John choked out a laugh, then - remembering himself - sat up a little straighter, meeting Mrs. Hudson's eyes.

"Thank you. You've no idea how much this means."

Mrs. Hudson smiled warmly. "I think I do," she said quietly, before adding: "Sherlock's never had a friend before."

"He does now," John said firmly, before pushing himself to his feet. "Thank you so much for your help, Mrs. Hudson."

"Are you sure you don't want any tea, dear?"

"No, thank you, I really must be going."

He slipped the note into the breast pocket of his jacket as Mrs. Hudson rose to bid him goodbye.

"It was lovely to meet you," Mrs. Hudson said.

"And you."

"I hope to see you again soon."

John smiled and bowed his head slightly. "I hope so too. Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson. I'll let myself out."

He rushed back down the stairs and into the street, fighting hard to suppress his grin. He had somewhere to start looking, and he felt on top of the world. He hailed a cab and climbed in, practically buoyant with happiness as he directed the driver back to his lodgings.

*

John knew something was wrong as soon as he reached his lodgings. He'd stopped off there very briefly before heading for Baker Street, but he knew he'd locked the door behind him when he left. The door now stood ajar, and there was a light on somewhere inside. 

John hesitated for a moment on the threshold, then took a careful step forward, scanning the hallway for any sign of danger. He crept forward as silently as possible, until he reached the main sitting room, where the light was coming from. There were no sounds from inside the room and John pressed a hand to the door, pushing it slowly open as he tensed for a fight.

He straightened as soon as he spotted Mycroft Holmes sitting in one of the armchairs, watching John with a faint smirk. John took a couple of slow steps into the room. The elder Holmes was flanked on either side by two bulky, dangerous-looking men, but with a nod, they left the room.

John stood in the centre of the room, hands clenched at his sides, only seconds away from losing control. Mycroft had made himself quite at home in John's sitting room, and his expression portrayed a sort of regal indifference as he turned pale eyes on John. John had forgotten just how intimidating he could be, this man whom Sherlock ridiculed at every opportunity. 

"I'm given to understand you've just been to my brother's home," Mycroft finally said, his tone even, giving nothing away. "Why?"

John gave no reply and Mycroft frowned, clearly displeased with John's show of disobedience. 

"Why are you attempting to find him? Surely you have more sense than that."

John pressed his lips together, but anger bubbled up from his gut, forcing the words out of his mouth. 

"Sherlock is my friend-"

"Let's be done with pretence right away, Mr. Watson," Mycroft interjected forcefully. "Sherlock was your lover. I warned you, and yet you still let yourself be drawn in. And you continue to be drawn in, coming here to London when any sane man would have jumped at the chance to be done with this folly."

"Folly?!" John echoed angrily. 

"Yes, folly. I could have you arrested this instant and sent to prison for a very long time."

"You've no proof."

Mycroft gave a cold smile, his eyes hard. "I don't need proof."

John squared his shoulders, staring down at the older man. "Do it, then."

Mycroft considered him for a moment, then smiled grimly. "You'd even go to prison for him. You really are a fool."

Before John could come up with any sort of reply, Mycroft continued. " _Sentiment_. Such a dangerous emotion. It makes men weak."

"I think it rather does the opposite, actually," John countered, holding Mycroft's gaze. He didn't know why he was even going to the effort to contradict Mycroft, who was no doubt long since set in his ways. 

"You call this strength?" Mycroft asked coolly, eyes flickering over John distastefully. "A man risking court martial and death for one meeting with his lover? I call this madness."

"Then I pity you."

Mycroft gave him a look of mild surprise, but it was quickly subsumed. "To what lengths would you go, to get what you want - to see Sherlock one more time?"

"I'd do anything."

"Even promise to walk away afterwards and never come back?"

John swallowed hard. "If Sherlock asked me to, yes."

"You don't think he would. You still believe him to be as loyal, as faithful, as you are. And yet you know, I'm sure, exactly the circumstances which precipitated his stay in Craiglockhart."

"I do."

"But you believe he hasn't forgotten you as easily as he did the young man they found in his bed."

"I know your brother," John said firmly. "I'd wager that I know him better even than you."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"I know the way his mind works, the way it eats away at itself, at him. I know that morphine made it a bit easier. And I know he'd do anything to get back to his work." John paused for a moment, then soldiered on. "I also know that he despises you. He thinks you want to meddle, want to control his life. He doesn't understand that sometimes brothers just can't stop themselves, when they're desperate to help."

He had no idea if Mycroft Holmes had any softer human emotions, or if appealing to them would work, but he didn't know what else to do in the face of the growing fear that Mycroft would make it so he could never see Sherlock again. Perhaps he had been naive to think he'd even get this far.

"No," Mycroft finally said. "We can't. And I'm sure you can understand, as a man whose brother suffered because he refused to reform, why I will do anything to help Sherlock get better."

"Even at the expense of his happiness?"

Mycroft flinched, a minuscule movement, but enough for John to pick up on. 

"Tell me, when you saw your brother at Craiglockhart, did he look happy?"

Mycroft pursed his lips, clearly unable to reply in the negative. 

"When was the last time you saw him like that?" John pressed.

Mycroft seemed to snap out of his reverie, shaking himself slightly. "That is irrelevant. My brother has broken the law, and he needs help."

"What help is he getting here that he couldn't get at Craiglockhart?" John asked in a quiet voice, afraid of the answer. Mycroft gave another almost imperceptible twitch.

"Aversion treatment? Electric shock therapy? Chemical castration?"

"You have to understand-"

"No," John interrupted. "This is your brother. He deserves better."

Mycroft was silent, his expression frustratingly blank.

"What could be so wrong about him being happy? Being loved?"

For a moment, Mycroft appeared to waver, but then his expression hardened.

"It is not my place to ignore the laws set down by Parliament."

"Then you are not the brother I imagined you were."

Mycroft pursed his lips, an uncomfortable look on his face. "Evidently not."

"There's nothing I can say to change your mind, is there?" John asked, sensing it was hopeless.

"You should visit your family," Mycroft said evenly, seemingly ignoring the question as he rose to his feet. "It may yet be some time before this sorry mess of a war is over."

John tried desperately to think of something, anything, that might hold more sway over Mycroft, but came up with nothing. He felt sick to the stomach.

"I trust you will put an end to this mad scheme now," Mycroft added, his tone implying that he would make sure of it. 

John opened his mouth but could not summon any words, helplessness clawing at his chest.

"Good evening, Mr. Watson."

John said nothing and Mycroft left without another word. As soon as the door shut behind him, John collapsed into the nearest chair, his hands shaking as he pressed them to his face.

*

The Surrey countryside was beginning to crawl its way out of winter as the train chugged past green fields and trees starting to regain their leaves. It should have been a sign to bring joy, another winter gone and new life beginning once again, but John felt nothing as he stared out of the window at the passing landscape. He spared a brief thought for his men, wondering if spring was finding its way to Belgium yet, but even that thought faded away again in the face of all-encompassing numbness.

He was met at the station by his parents, his mother drawing him into a tight embrace right there on the platform. His father shook his hand firmly, but there was a warmth in his expression. 

"Come, let's get you home," his mother said cheerily, clearly determined to make the most of his short visit. "I've made your favourite, lamb stew."

He forced a small smile and let himself be led out of the station to the waiting car, his father's pride and joy. His mother continued to twitter on for the short journey, filling the silence, but most of it fell on deaf ears. John could think of nothing but his own failure. 

They reached the house and John took it in, remembering the last time he was there - not so long ago, but it felt like a lifetime. He'd been lovesick, eager to get back to Scotland, to Sherlock, not knowing that Sherlock was being hidden away in some horrid institution whilst John ate his mother's stew and smiled and laughed. 

They went in and John turned towards the stairs. "I'll just wash up before dinner."

"Of course, dear," his mother said, but he didn't miss the concerned look she exchanged with his father. 

He made his way up to his old bedroom and dropped onto the bed with a sigh. He kept replaying the conversation with Mycroft over and over in his head, wondering if there was anything he could have done, something he could have said, to change his mind. It seemed unlikely, but John couldn't stop himself from imagining a hundred different variations on the encounter. 

"John?" his mother called, jerking him from his reverie. She tapped on the door and poked her head inside the room, watching him with a softness in her expression. 

"I'll be right down," he assured her, trying to muster some sort of enthusiasm. 

She smiled wanly and stepped into the room, sitting beside him and taking his hand in hers. 

"It'll be alright, dear," she said quietly. "I know no-one looks forward to going back to the Front. I know it must be horrid over there. But you're a good boy, you always have been. You always do what's proper."

He gave a choked laugh, but squeezed her hands in his. He wished he could tell her everything, reveal the real cause of his anxiety, but memories of Harry's scandal stopped him. He simply offered her a weak smile. 

"It'll be alright," he echoed.

She pressed his hands once more between hers, then rose. "Dinner will be ready soon."

He nodded and she left, pulling the door shut behind her. He drew in a deep breath, let it out, then forced himself to his feet and over to the small washbasin. He would attempt, at least for tonight, to forget about everything. He would play the dutiful son, swallowing down his fear at returning to the war, and try not to let his thoughts drift to where Sherlock might be, and what they might be subjecting him to.


	15. Chapter 15

A few days later, John was on his way back to London after another solemn parting from his parents. His mother had hugged him fiercely at the end and whispered again that it would be alright, still believing that the turmoil he had struggled to suppress during his short visit came from a fear of returning to the Front. The reality of the front lines was the furthest thing from his mind at the moment, though, as imminent as it was. He could only dwell on his own failure to find Sherlock.

The train pulled into Victoria Station and John made his way out onto the crowded concourse with the other passengers. He was not far from home now, but he lingered at the exit. It was only a short walk to Trafalgar Square and even with Mycroft's words echoing in his mind, he found himself taking the exit towards the river after only a moment's hesitation. He'd been thinking of what to do constantly, and he knew that he had to try, at least once more. 

The streets of Central London were surprisingly busy - not quite at pre-war levels, but certainly enough that John had to dodge a few groups on his way along the riverside towards Trafalgar Square. If not for the noticeable lack of men, and the fact that those who were around were in uniform, one could almost imagine there wasn't a war on as people strolled arm-in-arm along the Embankment, enjoying the weak spring sunshine. 

John stepped aside to let a young couple past, his eyes sliding to the young man's empty right sleeve and away again, and then continued on his path. He couldn't help imagining Sherlock walking along next to him, chattering away incessantly about this case or that experiment, or making deductions about passers-by. Even as it made his stomach clench with longing, he found himself smiling. 

He finally crossed the river and Trafalgar Square came into sight. He still had the little slip of paper Mrs. Hudson had given him and he retrieved it from his pocket, unfolding it to reveal Sherlock's hurried scribble. 

At the edge of the square, John paused. He couldn't help looking around cautiously, wondering if Mycroft had spies watching him right now. Was he being foolish to even attempt this, after everything Mycroft had said? He looked around again, but then shook his head, determined. He didn't care if Mycroft's people were about to sweep in at any moment and carry him off - he had to try. He couldn't bear the thought of going back to France without doing everything he could, Mycroft Holmes be damned. 

There were only a few people milling about the square, and John wandered around the outside, looking for anyone who might be part of Sherlock's homeless network. 

"Shine yer shoes, sir?"

He jumped at the voice and whirled around to find a boy of about ten giving him a plaintive look.

"Thank you, but no." 

The boy nodded in acceptance and was about to move away when John held out a hand to stop him. "Wait a minute."

"Yes, sir?"

"Do you know someone called Victoria?"

The boy narrowed his eyes. "Who's askin'?"

"A friend of Sherlock Holmes."

Instantly, the boy's face lightened. "Right this way, sir." The boy took off at a quick pace across the square. 

John hurried after him, surprised at his good luck.

"You know Mr. Holmes?" he asked when he'd caught up. 

"I only seen 'im once. My sister, though, she knows 'im. She runs errands for 'im sometimes."

"Your sister?"

The boy nodded but before John could ask any more, he was calling out to a girl crouched in a doorway, scrubbing the step.

"Victoria!"

The girl turned and took them both in. She couldn't have been more than sixteen, but she had a world-weary look about her that made her appear much older. The boy looked to John expectantly and John shook himself, turning his attention to Victoria.

"I'm trying to find Sherlock Holmes. I was told you might be able to help."

Victoria looked him up and down. "Why d'you wanna find 'im?"

John swallowed. "He's a very good friend of mine. I'm going back to France and I wanted to see him before I go."

"What's yer name?"

"John Watson."

"About bloody time," she said, and John's eyebrows rose in surprise. Victoria gave him a challenging look, but John just smiled - he could see why Sherlock liked her, given his own tendency to be frank almost to the point of rudeness. 

"Can you tell me how to find him?" John asked.

"Even better, I can show you. It's lunchtime now, he'll be out for a walk by the time we get there."

"There?"

"Palace Green Hospital, sir. Kensington."

"Kensington?" he echoed mindlessly. So close, all this time - and just fifteen minutes' walk from John's own lodgings. 

"Shall we go?" Victoria asked.

"Yes, sorry," he said. "Lead the way."

She handed the scrubbing brush to her brother. "Mrs. Hopkins will give you some bread when you've finished. Make sure you save some for me."

The boy gave her a lopsided grin and she shook her head, smoothing out her dress as she turned to John. "Let's go."

*

They passed out of Kensington Gardens towards the Palace, then turned onto a nearby street. Victoria came to a stop, pointing to a building just a few houses down.

"That's it."

John nodded. "Right. You said Mr. Holmes would be out for a walk?"

"There's a small garden to the side, that's where I usually meet him."

"Take me there."

There was a small pathway between the properties, running alongside the garden Victoria had mentioned. The garden itself was empty, but John could make out a number of people in the conservatory which opened onto the garden. John's eyes ran over the windows of the hospital, wondering where Sherlock might be.

"Uh oh," Victoria muttered from beside him and his attention flew to her, and then to the burly man approaching from the other end of the path. He recognised the heavy-set man easily enough, and he turned back the way they'd come to find Mycroft's other bodyguard setting in on them from the other side. "I hope they're for you," Victoria said.

"They are," John said. "Go on. They should let you leave without a fuss."

He took a few coins from his pocket and pressed them into her hand. "Thank you."

She tucked the coins away into a little bag and gave him a solemn nod. "Good luck." She slipped away just as the two men reached John, stern faces frowning at him.

"This way, Mr. Watson, if you please," the slightly bulkier of the two said, surprisingly well-spoken despite the look of him.

"I was just out for a walk," John said with feigned nonchalance. "Is there a problem?"

"Come with us, sir," the second man said, reaching out to take John's arm in a tight grip. "There, there, we don't want to make a fuss."

John attempted to shake him off, but then the other man seized him from the other side, hands clenching painfully around John's arm. "Come along now, Mr. Watson."

John wriggled, but their combined grip only tightened, making it impossible to get out. He felt desperation swelling up in his throat, Sherlock's name on the tip of his tongue as he debated shouting it out at the top of his voice. As if predicting this, one of the men clamped a sweaty hand over John's mouth and John struggled in earnest as they started to drag him away. 

"Don't make a scene now," one of the men growled. 

Ignoring him, John continued to struggle, trying to slip free of their hold. The hand over his mouth faltered just long enough for him to let out a cry and he saw a few heads turn in his direction from within the conservatory. A nurse appeared at the door, giving them a worried look. 

"Nothing to worry about, ma'am," the bigger man called to her. "This man is a deserter and we're taking him in."

John barely heard what they were saying, though, because all of a sudden a familiar face appeared at the door beside the nurse. John felt his heart about to pound out of his chest at the sight of Sherlock, who took one lightning-fast look over the scene, then started to move forward. The nurse placed a hand on his arm, but Sherlock shook her off. 

Mycroft's men seemed to finally give up their attempts to drag him towards the street and allowed him to straighten, but they didn't release his arms. Sherlock crossed the garden at a maddeningly even pace, and finally came to a stop just the other side of the low wall. John drank him in, eyes flickering over him to take in every detail and commit it to memory. 

"John," Sherlock finally said in an emotionless voice. "What are you doing here?"

John stalled, stunned into momentary silence. It took a few moments for him to realise it must be an act for the sake of Mycroft's men. 

"I wanted to see you," John got out, struggling to keep the flood of feeling threatening to overwhelm him from seeping into his voice. "Before I return to France."

Sherlock blinked, but his expression gave nothing away. When he'd still said nothing after a while, John spoke up again.

"How are you?"

"Fine. And you?"

"I'm well, thank you."

It was a bizarre parody of a normal conversation, across the wall of Sherlock's prison, John still held in place by Mycroft's goons. John wanted nothing more than to reach out for him, to see that blank expression soften into a smile just for John. 

Sherlock glanced at John's captors, then his eyes met John's, frustratingly devoid of any emotion.

"Well, thank you for coming to see me. It was very kind of you."

John let out a helpless, choked laugh and Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John turned to the goons.

"Look, could we have a minute alone, please? I promise I'll come with you afterwards."

The men exchanged an uncertain look.

"My brother won't hear a word of it," Sherlock added, and that seemed to make up their minds. The bulkier, well-spoken one gave John a menacing look.

"You've got two minutes."

John nodded gratefully, and they finally retreated to the end of the path, out of earshot. John turned back to Sherlock, smiling warmly.

"It's so good to see-"

"You needn't have come."

John started at Sherlock's overly formal tone.

"I had to see you," he got out.

"You really shouldn't have gone to any trouble on my behalf."

John opened his mouth, but the words had all dried up. Who was this act for now? The goons were barely paying attention, and at a quick glance, no-one from the hospital appeared to be watching them. So why was Sherlock's manner that of a casual acquaintance? 

"Is something wrong?" John asked, confused.

"Of course not."

"I- I thought you'd be... pleased to see me," he murmured weakly. 

"It was nice of you to come and see me, since we didn't get a chance to say goodbye in person before."

John gaped for a moment, before forcing the words out. "I don't understand. I- I got the notes you left me."

"Notes?" Sherlock echoed blankly.

"You... Your address on a scrap of paper back at Craiglockhart. The message to contact Victoria. You left me clues."

Sherlock shook his head. "You must be mistaken."

"I-"

"I'd like to thank you for coming, all the same. Even if there appears to have been some sort of misunderstanding."

At that, Sherlock held out his hand across the wall and John stared. What on earth was going on? When John hadn't moved after some time, Sherlock drew back his hand with a faint smile. 

"You'd best be going," he said, looking towards Mycroft's men and nodding. "I have to get back."

"That's it?" John choked out, even as the men approached. "That's all you have to say to me?" He could hear that he sounded on the verge of hysteria. 

Sherlock blinked at him. "Take care. Goodbye, John."

A hand wrapped around his arm, but John shrugged it off, taking a step away of his own accord. 

"Goodbye, Sherlock."

The words tore from his throat and with one last, long look, he turned and fled.

*

Contrary to his expectations, Mycroft's men took him home, dropping him outside his front door without another word. They set off again and John stared after the car in disbelief. He felt as if he were trapped in some awful nightmare. 

He staggered upstairs to his lodgings and through to the sitting room where he'd found Mycroft Holmes waiting for him just a few days ago. He dropped into the armchair and sagged forward, his head resting in his hands. 

Nothing made sense. Had he really imagined the message he thought Sherlock had left for him? Imagined that Sherlock truly wanted to see him again? It had seemed so clear, but what if it had all been in his head? Sherlock certainly hadn't seemed overly pleased to see John. Had John really got it all wrong, all this time?

Doubt crept in, helped along by the memory of Mycroft's words from earlier that week. _You still believe him to be as loyal as you. You believe he hasn't forgotten you._ Had what they'd shared in Scotland really meant nothing? A meaningless liaison, a passing fancy?

He shook his head. He remembered the man who had clung to him on their last night together, the man who had returned John's declaration of love. He hadn't imagined the feeling behind that - or had he? Unbidden, the words Mycroft had spoken in their very first meeting came back to him: _He is exceedingly good at playing a part to get what he wants._

In the face of Sherlock's coldness, he couldn't help coming to a painful conclusion: Sherlock had used him. God, it was obvious now - Sherlock himself had called John a pleasant distraction. He'd probably been laughing to himself at how true it was, even as John fell for him with every false word and every glimpse of the 'real' Sherlock. Hell, even his withdrawal had probably been played up for maximum effect, drawing John helplessly closer with only a little effort. 

John rubbed his hands over his eyes, exhausted and feeling slightly sick. He'd been an idiot. Of course someone like Sherlock would never really be interested in someone like John - but he'd chosen his victim well, because John had been gullible enough to believe that this extraordinary man wanted to spend time with him. In fact, he couldn't have chosen better, because John had fallen for the same tricks before. 

He'd met Sarah at nineteen, when he was about to embark on a study of medicine. She'd been lovely - beautiful and intelligent, and so very kind. It wasn't until he made the decision to quit his medical training and join the Army that he learned her true character, though, as she turned vicious and spiteful at the prospect of marrying a soldier when she'd planned on being a doctor's wife. She'd laughed in his face as she broke off their engagement, sneering as she'd asked if he really believed she'd ever fall in love with a man like him. It had all been fake, she'd admitted, leaving him with a broken heart and a wounded ego. He'd been young, though, and he'd gotten over it soon enough. 

And now it was happening all over again. He'd fallen for the charms of a man too clever not to know exactly the effect he had, too wily to miss John's fascination turning into admiration, into affection. Too late, again, John learned that he had been fooled, that everything he'd believed was a lie. And yet...

And yet he could still remember the way Sherlock had leaned into his hand, that last evening they'd spent together, and said how much he was going to miss John. He could remember the dazed look on Sherlock's face as John, swept up in their lovemaking, had finally said the words 'I love you' - and the hesitant way Sherlock had asked if it was true. In spite of everything, he could not - would not - believe that it was all a lie. He would not believe that Sherlock was that good an actor. 

Even so, Sherlock had made it clear that John had been wrong to come and find him. He'd been cold and formal, nothing like the man John had last seen several weeks ago now. For whatever reason, he'd not wanted John to be there and had sent him away. In the end, there was little more John could do - he was due to return to France and now that it appeared Sherlock wanted him gone, there seemed no point risking a court martial. He would report for duty tomorrow, and return to where he was really needed. He would simply have to clear his mind of Sherlock, for now, and carry on with his job.

However, as he settled down for sleep that evening, a thousand images of Sherlock flashing behind his closed eyelids, he knew that forgetting Sherlock wasn't going to be easy. He only hoped that the chaos of the front lines would be enough to drive the memories away.


	16. Chapter 16

The Germans attacked in the spring, only weeks after John's return to the Front. John's troop had been about to be relieved, sent back behind the lines for some much-needed rest, when the bombardment began. Although they'd been expecting a big push, they hadn't quite anticipated the intensity of the pre-attack bombardment: it lasted for several hours as he and his men huddled in their bunker. Communications were severed early on - they'd obviously been targeted at the start - which left the troop with little idea about what was happening, but John had his orders already. All they could do was wait. 

The bombardment ceased just after sunrise, although they would soon learn that the sun itself was still hidden in the thick fog that had appeared overnight. There was an eerie silence left behind, although John's ears were still buzzing from the relentless pounding. In any normal situation, the end of the bombardment would be good news, but everyone knew what came next, knew that this was only the beginning. 

"Alright, everyone up," John called, clapping his hands together. There were several half-hearted groans from his men, but they were all on their feet as quickly as possible, strapping on belts with ammunition and picking up their weapons. 

John cast an assessing glance over them as they gathered by the entrance to the dug-out, then nodded, setting his helmet on his head and fastening the straps. 

"Let's head out."

He led the way out into trenches that had lost all of their integrity in the shower of shells, earth churned up and thrown all over the place. At least they were relatively dry, which made for a nice change, John thought wryly. The men lined up along the edge of the trench, rifles at the ready as John paced along the line. They were good men, all of them, and well used to battle after almost four years. He sent up a silent prayer that they would all see the end of the day, then took up his own post near the middle of the line. 

"At the ready," he ordered, glancing left then right. They were all tensed, rifles cocked. 

"Let's give Jerry what for!" someone shouted, and John gave a smile. 

"Alright, settle down," he said, the smile fading away as he prepared himself for the fight to come. 

It wasn't exactly that he had missed the war - he wasn't quite that mad - but now that he was back, he felt complete. He was a soldier, after all, and right here - braced and ready to fight alongside his men - was where he belonged, where he was needed.

Silence fell over the trench as they peered out into the fog, searching for any sign of the German advance that was sure to arrive at any time. John's mind cleared, free from any preoccupation as he stroked his finger over the trigger of his gun. He took a deep breath in, then let it out slowly. 

Gunfire exploded into the silence, short bursts that echoed around the trench. Something was wrong, though - the gunfire was coming from somewhere behind them. John looked back over his shoulder, but could make nothing out through the haze. He shared a look with Lieutenant Cooper, his second-in-command, but before he could make any sense of it, the first shapes appeared from out of the fog just along the line. The sound of rifle-shot filled the immediate area along with the shouts of his men and the pained cries of soldiers shot down, and then John was taking aim and firing at the first shadowy outline he could spot. 

It was chaos. They could barely see the enemy coming, forced into firing blindly into the mist. Sounds of fighting could be heard all around, a confusing din that made it hard to keep track of which direction they should be facing. John tried his best to guide his men, but most of them were too busy fighting for their lives to hear anything he said. 

He saw eighteen-year-old Stephens go down with a bullet to the throat, and called out for the medic as he shoved his way along the trench, shouting mindless encouragement as he went. A couple of German soldiers managed to breach the trench, blocking John's path, but John had his handgun in his hand already and shot the nearest at point-blank range as the second grappled with Davis. John edged past, more than certain that Davis could handle the soldier half his size, and rushed to Stephens' side. The medic was already there and shook his head sadly as he met John's gaze, passing a bloody hand over the boy's eyes.

There was no time to mourn and John whirled back, assessing the situation. Several more Germans had got into the trench, and the men were fighting in close quarters. It was the worse kind of fighting - a bullet was impersonal, allowed you to keep your distance, but it was something else when you were scrapping like this, when you could see the whites of the other man's eyes, smell his breath. As another German soldier jumped into the trench, John could see they were in real danger of being overrun. There was only one thing for it. 

"Fall back!" he cried as loudly as he could, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Fall back!"

His lieutenant took up the cry from further down the trench, the order slowly making its way through the troop. John shouldered his rifle and shot down two more advancing soldiers, even as he shoved the nearest private towards the escape trench. 

"Go. Fall back. Fall back!"

*

Six men dead, and yet it could have been so much worse. By the time they reached the rear lines and found most of the reserves already dead or injured, John knew that something had gone very wrong - or, for the Germans, very right. When the day's fighting was finally over and they made their way to a new dugout, several miles further back than they had started the day, John left his men to get some food and went to report to his superiors, soon finding out the true extent of their losses. Worse still, he was informed that tomorrow they would have to be ready for a counter-offensive to drive the Germans back towards their own lines. 

John returned to his troop in time to grab a small meal, then set himself up at a rickety old table to write the letters to the families of those who had died that day. Around him, his men were finally letting themselves relax after a hard day's fighting, playing cards or just chatting. 

Lieutenant Cooper dropped down into the seat next to him. 

"What's the latest from HQ?"

John sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "We weren't the only ones to suffer heavy losses today. The whole line's in disarray. Their Stormtroopers cut right through and caused chaos."

Cooper frowned. "Can we expect tomorrow to be just as bad?"

"Probably. We're to try to force them back."

"That'll take some doing, now they're on the front foot."

"I know." John grimaced, his eyes flicking over the men. "How's Davis' leg?"

"You know what he's like, says it's just a scratch."

John pursed his lips. "Make sure he gets it checked tonight. We need everyone in top condition if we're going to stand any chance tomorrow."

Cooper nodded and rose to his feet, leaving John to the letters. 

Writing to mothers and fathers to tell them their son was dead was easily one of the most horrible parts of his job. He felt a personal kind of failure at every one: it was his job to keep these boys alive. Even after four years, he still felt every loss as keenly. 

Every time he sat down to write, he also found himself thinking of the people who didn't get letters, but who were just as affected by the news: siblings, cousins, close friends, sweethearts. Maybe even a lover, here and there, masquerading as a friend. 

John shook his head. That was a dangerous path for his thoughts to go down, as it inevitably led to the many things he'd been trying so hard not to think about. Would Sherlock even care, for example, if he were to hear that John had been killed? It seemed unlikely, given his behaviour at their last meeting. John winced, trying to force his attention back to the task at hand. Four weeks on, the pain of that last encounter still burned in his chest.

He managed another couple of sentences of the letter he was on, but it was hopeless - his mind was already wandering. He couldn't help thinking about where Sherlock might be at that moment in time. Was he still in the hospital? Or maybe he was even on his way back to France - he'd certainly seemed in good health when John had last seen him, not that that had ever been the problem. He wondered how much longer Mycroft was going to punish Sherlock - because that was clearly what the treatment was - in a desperate bid to help him. 

John swallowed, his hand trembling just slightly in a way it hadn't done for months. It did him no good to torture himself with these thoughts, but in the quieter hours, when they were away from the fighting and out of immediate danger, it was almost all he could think of. 

"Sir?" Simpson waved a hand in front of John, snapping him back to the present.

"Sorry, yes?"

"I asked if I could perhaps have some paper."

"Of course." John flushed and passed him a couple of sheets from his pile. 

"He's writing to his sweetheart," Thomas called over, blowing kisses as Simpson blushed.

"You're just jealous, Thomas," John said with a grin. "Everyone knows Simpson's girl is the prettiest of the lot."

Simpson smiled proudly, and Thomas laughed. 

"What about you then, sir? You haven't got a pretty girl back home?" Thomas asked. 

"No," John said, adding a feigned sigh. "And I'm such a prize catch, after all."

"A fine gentleman like yourself, sir? I'm surprised." Thomas grinned. "These girls just don't know their luck nowadays." 

John laughed. Thomas was a constant joker, but it did wonders for morale. "Anyway," Thomas continued, "If we survive this bloody war, we'll all be catches. There'll be no-one else left!"

John smiled crookedly, but shook his head in a poor display of disapproval. "Watch that talk," he warned lightly. 

"I was only joshing, sir. In any case, I'll never get me a girl as pretty as Simpson's. Bugger me, she's a looker."

"You don't deserve a girl as pretty as Simpson's, not with that foul mouth."

"Aye, you might be right there, sir."

With another proud grin, Simpson finally slipped away to write his letter, and Thomas turned away to talk to the group next to him, leaving John once more alone with his thoughts. 

For just a moment, he let himself picture what it would be like if he did have someone waiting back home, and his treacherous mind instantly set to wondering what it would be like if it was Sherlock. He'd be useless, John decided. John would write every week, when he could, and receive nothing back for ages, then out of the blue he'd get a five-page letter that turned into an essay partway through. He could easily see it, and found the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile. Sherlock would go on about how boring everything was and how stupid everyone around him was, and how much better it would be if John were there and-

John's mind stuttered to a halt, bitterness seeping in. It was easy to forget sometimes that things were so different from John's imagination. He let himself forget sometimes, when he lay in the darkness in his bunk, and remembered the short time they had spent together at Craiglockhart. He found himself reliving their first meeting, first kiss, first lovemaking, and all the bits in between. He knew he was making it even harder for himself, but he couldn't stop. 

A burst of laughter from one of the groups drew John's attention and he smiled faintly, looking over his men. Finally, he turned back to the letters, the thoughts of the young men who had lost their lives that day sobering him instantly and driving away - if only temporarily - his obsessive contemplation. 

*

"Captain Watson?"

John looked up from the letter he was halfway through writing. A messenger stood by the door of the tent and John waved him over even as some of the men pointed the messenger in John's direction. 

"Here."

"You're to report to General Marcham, sir."

John frowned. He'd been there earlier that day to report on the day's events, so was surprised to be called back again. 

"Okay. Thank you."

The messenger slipped out again and John tidied his papers before rising to his feet.

"You don't think they've changed the plans for tomorrow?" Cooper asked from his perch not far away.

"Lord knows," John said with a grimace. "They could have some new intelligence, I suppose."

Cooper made a face - he had a strange mistrust of intelligence - and John laughed lightly, clapping him on the shoulder as he headed out. "I'll be back soon. Keep an eye on Russell with that drink."

It was a short walk through the camp to the house General Marcham and his staff had taken over. John was shown in to the drawing room, only to stop dead when he saw Mycroft Holmes standing next to General Marcham by the window. 

"Captain Watson," Marcham greeted, and John saluted, his gaze flicking between the two men. 

"Sir."

"You know Mr. Holmes, I believe?"

"I do."

"Well, Holmes, I'll leave you to it, shall I?"

"Thank you, yes."

John saluted again as Marcham left, then turned his attention to Mycroft, who looked perfectly at home, as if he were in a London club and not five miles from the front lines. 

"Let's not waste any time, Mr. Watson. Where is my brother?"

John blinked. "Sorry?"

"Where is Sherlock?" 

John straightened, hands clasped behind his back. "In Kensington, I believe."

Mycroft sighed and passed a hand over his face. "This is no time for games."

"I'm afraid I don't have a clue what you're talking about."

Mycroft pursed his lips, considering John for several moments. "My brother left the hospital two days ago. He was last seen heading for Dover."

"And you assumed he'd come here?"

"It seemed the most logical solution."

"You must be aware that the last time I saw your brother, he made it quite clear he had no interest in seeing me again."

Mycroft frowned. "You had an understanding, of course?"

"No. I don't expect to see him ever again," John said. When Mycroft looked perturbed, John added: "I might remind you that that is exactly what you wanted."

Mycroft pursed his lips, dark eyes fixing on John. "You swear on your honour that you do not know where he is."

"I do."

Mycroft smiled, a small, bitter thing. "Although I imagine if you did know his whereabouts, you'd say exactly the same thing."

"Most probably, yes," John admitted. 

Mycroft gave him another long stare, before letting out a sigh. "It looks like my search continues. I'm very sorry to have bothered you."

John raised an eyebrow in vague amusement, but Mycroft already appeared to be lost in thought. John turned on his heel and left him to it. As he slipped out of the house, his mind was spinning with one thought alone: where on earth was Sherlock?


	17. Chapter 17

The next morning came far too soon. Lieutenant Cooper had ducked out first thing and reported back that it had rained overnight, and even without seeing it John could easily picture the quagmire No Man's Land would have become. If John had been the one to make the choice, he would never have opted to send his men over the top in such conditions, but there was nothing he could do but obey orders.

Dawn was only minutes away as he tightened the strap of his helmet, squared his shoulders, and led the way out of the dugout. The rain had turned into a light drizzle that settled over the troop as they lined up along the trench, and John pulled his overcoat tighter around his neck. It was a miserable day. John cast a look over his men, noting a number of weary expressions: too many of them were still tired from yesterday's fighting, and even he could feel himself sagging ever so slightly. He took a deep breath and straightened, seeking out his lieutenant in the line. Cooper gave him a nod, a silent acquiescence to the madness to come.

There was no joking this morning - even Thomas was uncharacteristically quiet, the coming battle settling over them all like a dark shadow. 

"Steady, men," John shouted down the line, more than anything a reminder to them that he was here and he wasn't going to let them go out there alone. "Not long now."

He checked his pocket watch and followed the steady movement of the second hand, counting down to the end of their respite. The second hand ticked past twelve, the minute hand shifted to the right, and it was time. He retrieved his whistle from his pocket and tucked it between his lips, taking one deep breath inwards before blowing as loudly as he could. 

The men jumped into action, scrambling up the ladders and over the top - and almost at once, the tak-tak-tak of machine gun fire began. John watched the last man over the crest of the trench then followed, hurrying up the ladder and into the hell of No Man's Land. 

Rain hit him in the face instantly, obscuring his vision, but from the shapes he could make out in front of him, he could tell that the line was falling apart already, men falling behind or dropping where they were hit. John shouted encouragement until his throat was raw, Cooper's voice echoing his words just along the line. 

"Come on, men! Forward! Hold the line!"

The mud was cloying, making every step that much harder than the first, slowing them all down and making them an even easier target for the machine-gunners. A man collapsed to his knees ten feet in front of John, and then sagged to the ground. Fighting against the mud as it tried to pull him back, John hurried over to the man and dropped to one knee beside him, but it was already far too late - his chest was riddled with bullets and his eyes had slipped into vacancy. 

John closed his eyes for a brief moment then, remembering where he was, got to his feet again. It was just as he straightened that he felt a tearing pain rip through his leg.

He let out a cry, dropping to the ground partly out of pain and partly for safety, landing on the nearby corpse. He wriggled to the side and collapsed onto his back, his hand grasping his thigh, fingers instantly sticky with blood. He'd forgotten the agony of metal piercing skin as the fire spread through his leg. He gritted his teeth and let out a desperate noise, fumbling for his whistle. Despite his shaking hands, he managed to get it between his teeth and blew as hard as he could, even as his vision started to swim.

He pulled his fingers away just for a moment, staring in horror at the stain spreading down his trousers and the blood smeared across his palm. So much blood from such a small hole. Dots flickered at the edges of his vision and he sagged back against the damp ground, rain kissing his face and sliding down his neck. It was getting awfully cold, and he knew enough to know this was a bad sign. He blew on his whistle again, but his energy was dwindling. 

He let his eyes slip closed, and he was instantly presented with the image of Sherlock. The memories of that last meeting were banished for the time being and instead he saw Sherlock in their bedroom at Craiglockhart, mouth curving into a soft smile as John looked down at him. 

"Sir?" 

John startled, forcing his eyes open. "Simpson," he got out weakly.

"Where are you hit?" Simpson asked, calm and authoritative in a way John would never have imagined. These boys were all growing up far too quickly.

"My leg. My... My right leg."

He let out a slightly hysterical laugh when he realised it was the same leg that had pained him for no reason not so long ago. Simpson gave him a worried look even as he quickly looped something around John's leg and pulled it tight. John cried out, but Simpson put a steadying hand on his chest.

"It's alright, sir. The medic's almost here."

John grimaced. "The medics are all waiting back in the trench like I told them to. We can't lose any more of them."

"You're going to be just fine, sir," Simpson said, eyes scanning over their surroundings, but John knew there was nothing but mud and corpses. "My father's a doctor."

"I wish he were here," John said with a croaking laugh. 

"I'll get us back, sir, don't worry."

John wanted to say something more, wanted to warn Simpson to be careful - to worry about his pretty girl back home instead of John - but his tongue suddenly felt very heavy in his mouth and his eyelids flickered. 

"Simpson," he slurred, but he could say nothing more before he slipped into unconsciousness.

*

He woke in his room at Craiglockhart, sun shining in through the large windows - not that it had ever been that sunny during his stay. The sun basked everything in a warm glow, but nothing more so than the dark-haired vision sleeping beside him. Sherlock shifted in his sleep, his arm looping around John's waist, and John smiled, reaching out to brush an errant curl away from his face.

"Stop right there!"

John whirled round to find Mycroft Holmes standing at the bedroom door, flanked by Bryce and Dr. Worthing. 

"I warned you, Captain Watson."

The next thing John knew, he was sitting in the corner of a dimly-lit room. He could not see any restraints, but he could not move. Across the room, Sherlock sat strapped into a chair, head sagging.

"Are you listening, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, standing over Sherlock with a stern expression. "You must learn."

Sherlock shook his head listlessly, and Mycroft gave an audible sigh, before nodding towards the darkest corner of the room. A second later, Sherlock let out a gargling cry and threw his head back as his body convulsed. Now his face was exposed, John could see the electrodes tapped to each temple. 

John opened his mouth to call out, but no sound emerged. He struggled against his invisible restraints, but to no effect. 

Mycroft gave another nod and Sherlock sagged once more, but this time, his eyes found John's through the gloom. His expression was devoid of emotion, dark eyes like a bottomless pit as John stared. 

"Do you see, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked with false kindness, patting Sherlock's hair. "He's a coward, a weakling."

John his face aside, and the blackness took him once more.

*

The room was hazy as John peeled open his eyes, his vision swimming. Everything seemed to be swaying, and he could hear a relentless chugging noise. A haggard-looking nurse appeared in his line of vision and gave him a quick, assessing glance.

"This one's come round," she called to someone else.

"Give him some more morphine. We don't want him awake properly. Not until we get him to a proper hospital."

John opened his dry mouth, but the nurse gave him a kindly pat as he felt a sharp prick in his arm.

"Sleep," she ordered.

John's eyes fluttered closed again as he was pulled under by a delicious warmth.

*

The next time he opened his eyes, John caught a glimpse of a high ceiling and large, airy windows, but soon his whole focus was pulled inexorably towards the burning ache in his leg. He let out a gasp of pain, and he heard a chair shift nearby.

"Nurse!"

The deep voice was achingly familiar, and John turned his head towards the noise, but a heavily-set nurse bustled into view instead.

"Can you hear me?"

He nodded.

"How's the pain? Bad?"

He nodded again.

"I'll give you something for it. You rest some more, Captain Watson."

John tried to speak up in protest, but that welcoming warmth pulled him back into darkness again before he could even form the words.

*

It was night when John woke once more, and he had no idea how long it had been since he'd been shot. His leg was throbbing, but there must still have been some drugs in his system, because it was a faint sensation, nothing like the agonising burn of before. All he could focus on now was the rasp of every breath over his dry tongue; he was desperate for a drink. He braced his arms under him and tried to push himself up.

"Be careful."

A familiar face appeared at his bedside, one hand hovering over John's chest. 

"Sher-" he got out, but his mouth was too dry and he faltered.

"Water," Sherlock said, mostly to himself. "I'll be right back."

John wanted to reach out for him, stop him before the illusion dissipated, but he was too weak, and he fell back against his pillow. He listened as footsteps strode away, then returned almost instantly, Sherlock's head popping into his line of sight once more.

"Here." Sherlock bent down and hooked a strong arm around his shoulders, helping him to sit as he guided a small glass of water to John's lips. Blinking, still waiting for the vision to disappear, John took a few hesitant sips. He pulled away, brow crinkling as he tried to figure out what was going on.

"Sherlock?"

"Hello," Sherlock said, an odd thickness in his voice and his eyes flashing with far too many emotions for John to be able to distinguish any one. 

"What... What are you doing here?"

"I'll explain later."

"How did you...?"

Sherlock gave him a smile, one of the soft ones that John had missed more than anything. "I'll tell you everything when you're feeling better. You still need to rest."

"I'm fine."

Sherlock laughed gently, lowering John back onto his pillow. "Still as obstinate as ever."

"I feel like I'm dreaming."

A shadow crossed Sherlock's face, and he looked away for a moment, before meeting John's eyes. "I'm here now, and I'm not going anywhere."

John fumbled until he could take hold of Sherlock's hand, fingers locking around his warm and very real palm. Sherlock let out a choked noise and dropped his head, his expression hidden as he placed his other hand over their clasped hands.

"Sherlock?"

"I have no right - I can't begin to -" Sherlock trailed off, and John tugged at his hand.

"Sherlock, please look at me."

Sherlock raised his head, his expression more open than John had ever seen it. There was so much there, bubbling just beneath the surface, and none of it made any sense. Where was the man who had turned John away so coldly? 

Sherlock dropped his hand suddenly, and John frowned, just as a door opened and the same heavily-set nurse appeared again. 

"Ah, you're awake," she said, sending a stern look in Sherlock's direction. "I told you to come fetch me, sir."

"I was on my way."

She turned her attention back to John. "Well, you look a little less fuzzy-headed. Are you in pain?"

"It's bearable."

"Good."

She made a show of helping John to sit and fluffing his pillows, before guiding him back down.

"I suggest you rest some more, Captain Watson. We don't want you exerting yourself." She gave Sherlock a pointed look. "Your friend would do well to leave you in peace."

"I really don't mind," John said.

She threw her hands up in a gesture of frustration. "On your head be it. Do you need anything else?"

"No, thank you."

"Very well. I'll be back to check on you a little later."

The nurse gave Sherlock another scowl before ducking out of the room. John laughed weakly, but it soon turned into a dry cough.

"Here, have some more drink."

Sherlock urged him to sit again, but this time John took the glass himself, drinking the remainder in one go. Sherlock took the glass back and moved to turn away, but John locked a hand around his wrist. Sherlock looked at the circle of John's fingers and reached over to place the glass on the bedside table, before settling hesitantly onto the edge of the bed, his gaze fixed on John's grip.

"You seem to have made quite an impression with the nurse," John said lightly.

Sherlock scoffed.

"How long have you been here?" 

"Since this morning."

"How long have I been here?"

"You got here last night."

"And where exactly is 'here'?" John asked, finally taking a chance to look around. The room was ornate, clearly once a bedroom, nothing like the ward he remembered from the last time he had been injured.

"An estate just outside of Calais."

John looked to Sherlock in surprise. "What are you doing in France?"

"Later," Sherlock said softly. "You really should rest."

"Are you actually going to tell me later?" John asked, fingers tightening around Sherlock's too-thin wrist. "Or are you hoping the morphine has addled my brain enough that I'll forget?"

Sherlock gave a huff of laughter, but then fixed dark eyes on John. "You have my word."

"If you're not here when I wake up, I will hunt you down," John whispered.

"I have no doubt."

Sherlock slipped free of John's grip but seemed reluctant to leave.

"I really hope this isn't a dream," John whispered, closing his eyes. 

"It's not a dream, John."

"That's exactly what you'd say in a dream."

He heard Sherlock give a snort, then felt fingers ghost over his cheek. "Sleep, John."

"G'night, Sherlock."

"Goodnight."


	18. Chapter 18

Morning light was streaming in through the windows as John woke, blinking away the lingering confusion of a morphine-induced dream he could not quite remember. The dream faded, only to be replaced with the hazy memory of the previous night, which itself felt like some sort of impossible drug-fuelled fantasy. He was almost ready to dismiss it as such when he heard a distinct snuffle from somewhere to his left, and he turned slowly towards the sound, reality dispersing the morphine-tinged fog and sending joy sparking through his chest. 

Sherlock was curled up asleep in a nearby chair, contorted into an awkward shape, arms and legs hanging at impossible angles. John drank him in, marvelling at this unexpected turn of his events. For weeks, he'd despaired of ever seeing Sherlock again - and worse, he'd thought Sherlock had no interest in seeing him. He was more than pleased to be proven wrong. The man who had sent John away with a distant formality had been nowhere to be seen last night, and in his place, the man John had known at Craiglockhart had reappeared - although he recognised now, with a slightly clearer head, that there had been something subdued about Sherlock's behaviour, an uncertainty that had never been there before. 

As John looked on, Sherlock shifted in his sleep in a movement that threatened to send him toppling out of the chair, but he caught himself before he fell, startled into wakefulness. He blinked and turned bright eyes towards John, sleep gone in the space of a few heartbeats. 

"You're awake."

"Good deduction," John said with a soft smile.

Sherlock got to his feet. "Do you need anything? Water? More morphine?"

John shook his head. "I'm fine. Thank you."

Sherlock fell silent, hovering awkwardly by the bed, until John was compelled to beckon him closer. He wanted nothing more than to wipe away that alien hesitation. "Come, sit down. You'll give me a neck-ache looming like that."

Sherlock hesitated. "I should call the nurse to check on you."

"No, you shouldn't." John reached out and just managed to catch hold of Sherlock's sleeve, tugging on it to draw him closer. "Sit. You've some explaining to do, remember."

"I remember." Sherlock lowered himself to the bed, sitting on the edge rather primly. He cleared his throat, looking at the floor rather than John. "I hardly know where to begin."

"Then let me ask you a question. The only one I really require an answer to now."

Sherlock turned his head, eyes fixed on John's. "Yes?"

"Are your feelings for me the same as they were at Christmas?"

Sherlock swallowed. "Yes. Of course, yes. But I understand if my actions-"

"Sherlock, shut up," John whispered, drawing himself up with some difficulty. Sherlock reached out to help, which had the added benefit of bringing him even closer, and John grabbed him by the collar. Sherlock stilled and then his whole expression softened as John leaned in, slowly, and touched their lips together. 

Sherlock made a noise in his throat and pressed closer, and John smiled, cupping Sherlock's cheek in his hand. He could feel all his worries of the past few weeks dissolving with the gentle slide of Sherlock's mouth against his. There was no artifice here, no suggestion that it had all been a lie; there was only raw feeling and a rising sense of desperation.

John drew back, breathless, his fingers stroking Sherlock's jaw. 

"I honestly thought I'd never see you again," he murmured, embarrassed to find his eyes watering.

"John," Sherlock started, his voice rough, "I am truly sorry for what I have done to you. You have every right to send me away, to never speak to me again."

"That doesn't sound like something I would do."

"You're too forgiving."

"No, I'm not." John smiled, threading his fingers through Sherlock's hair. Now that he had Sherlock close enough to touch again, he wasn't sure he was ever going to be able to stop. "I simply suspect there is a lot more to this story."

Sherlock leaned into John's touch, his eyes swimming with a warmth John had fervently missed. "John," he breathed.

John was unable to resist pulling him in again, their kiss quickly turning frenzied. John ran desperate hands over Sherlock's hair, neck, back, shoulders - anywhere he could reach. Sherlock had an iron grip on John's upper arms, and he shuffled as close as he could possibly get, chest to chest.

"John," Sherlock murmured brokenly, pulling away to bury his face in John's neck. "You have no idea how much I have missed you."

"And I you," John got out, breathing in the scent of Sherlock and swallowing back his tears. "God, Sherlock."

"I love you, John." Sherlock drew back, taking John's face in his large hands. John had never seen him so moved. "Please believe me. I love you more than I ever imagined possible."

"I believe you." 

"The things I've done - You have to know -"

"Shh," John said, overcome with emotion. "Later. You can tell me everything later." He pressed their foreheads together.

Sherlock swallowed, his hands rubbing over John's shoulders, and let out a long breath. "I really should get the nurse to check on you."

John laughed. "Sherlock Holmes doing what he should? I never thought I'd see the day."

Sherlock smiled and drew away. "One of us has to be the reasonable one, and as you're on morphine, it shall have to be me."

"Well I never."

Sherlock rose to his feet with obvious reluctance. "I'll be back shortly."

*

The nurse conducted a frowning examination of John and his bandages.

"You'll be wanting a bed bath at some point, I imagine," she murmured.

"I'll do it," Sherlock cut in, drawing a look of displeasure from the nurse. "It hardly seems sensible to waste your precious time on something so trivial."

Despite Sherlock's attempts at flattery, the nurse gave him her customary frown. "Very well."

John bit down on his grin as the nurse turned back to him. "Thank you so much for your care."

"It's my job, Captain Watson. Although, I will be needing to get back to my actual job soon," she said with a pointed look in Sherlock's direction. 

"We had an arrangement."

"I'm well aware, but when I was brought here, I thought it was to treat someone of importance." She cast a glance at John. "If you'll excuse my saying so, Captain."

John frowned in confusion. 

"You'll be handsomely rewarded, so do stop complaining, woman," Sherlock said. "Now, leave us."

The nurse huffed and puffed, but made a swift exit nonetheless. As the door clicked shut behind her, John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. "You press-ganged a nurse into looking after me?"

"I did no such thing."

"Sherlock-"

John was interrupted as the door opened once more. Sherlock gave an audible sigh, and John stared openly as Mycroft Holmes sauntered into the room, swinging a cane as he walked. He stopped about a foot short of the bed, leaning on his cane as his gaze flicked over Sherlock, then came to rest on John.

"Good morning, Captain Watson."

"Good morning," John answered, looking to Sherlock for an explanation. Sherlock met his eyes, but said nothing.

"I hope you slept well," Mycroft continued, drawing John's attention back to him. 

"Yes, thank you." 

"And how are you feeling today?"

"Better." John threw another bewildered look at Sherlock. "Thank you."

"Good." Mycroft gave him a weak smile. "You'll be fit to travel back to England soon."

Mycroft turned to address his brother. "I'm heading back to London this morning. I'll leave Jenkins. As soon as Captain Watson is well enough, Jenkins will make arrangements for your return."

"He'll need medical attention for a while longer," Sherlock said.

"Of course. I have made arrangements for Mrs. Smith to stay with you until such a time as she is no longer required."

"Good." Sherlock pursed his lips. "Thank you."

"I assume you will be returning to Baker Street."

"Yes."

"I'll have Mrs. Hudson informed."

Sherlock bowed his head in acknowledgement and Mycroft turned back to John. "I won't intrude any longer. I wish you a speedy recovery, Captain Watson."

"Thank you," John got out. He felt like he'd witnessed something profound yet surreal. Mycroft Holmes inclined his head politely at both of them, before turning on his heel and sauntering out of the room, cane tapping against the polished floor.

John turned instantly to Sherlock with a flabbergasted look. "What - How - I don't understand."

Sherlock smiled softly, and returned to his perch on the edge of John's bed. "This is my brother's estate."

"Your brother... Are you quite sure that _was_ your brother? Because the last time I saw him, he threatened to have me arrested for trying to talk to you."

"I know," Sherlock said in a low voice. "Why do you think I sent you away?"

John gave him a searching look. "You..."

"I sent you away to protect you."

"But it was you who had encouraged me to come after you. I found the notes."

Sherlock got to his feet again, pacing. "I was foolish. I treated it as a game, sneaking notes under Mycroft's nose. I had no idea then what he had planned. For myself, or for you, if you dared to follow me."

"What exactly did he have planned?" John asked, his heart pounding in his chest. 

Sherlock stopped, his eyes fixed on John. "Chemical castration. For both of us."

John felt like the world was spinning, and he reached out for Sherlock. "You - Did they..." He couldn't finish his sentence, dread choking him. He knew there was something not quite right in Sherlock's behaviour, but he'd never imagined -

"No," Sherlock said quickly, taking John's hand and sitting once more. "No. The procedure was planned for this week, but I escaped, and was able to persuade my brother to change his mind."

"How?" 

"I went to the only person who holds any power over him."

"You don't mean... the King?" John asked in astonishment.

Sherlock laughed lightly. "No. I went to our mother."

"Your mother? I thought she was ill?"

"She is. It was a risk, going to her. I had no idea if seeing me would make her condition worse."

Sherlock fell silent and John squeezed Sherlock's hand tightly in his own. "What happened?" he prompted.

"I told her everything that had been kept from her. My deserting the Army, my... problems with opiates. And you."

"Then what?"

"She..." Sherlock's face twisted into a strange expression. "She laughed."

John quirked an eyebrow and Sherlock continued, shaking his head. 

"She was happy. She said... She said she was so glad I'd finally found someone." He paused to give John a warm smile. "Someone to spend my life with."

John squeezed Sherlock's hand again, but didn't say anything, afraid of cutting Sherlock off mid-flow - even if he wanted nothing more at that moment than to kiss him. 

"She also told me about an incident I had been unaware of." He paused for a moment. "Apparently, at the age of seventeen, my brother fell in love... with one of the stable boys on this very estate."

John was stunned into stillness. 

"They were going to run away together, if you can imagine such sentimentality of my brother."

"What happened?"

"They were found out. The boy had bragged to his sister about his 'conquest', and she informed my mother, who told my father." Sherlock pursed his lips, his face contorting into a picture of discontent. "You should know that my father was not a forgiving man, not even for the slightest offence. I stole one of his cigars when I was nine and I couldn't sit down for a week once he'd finished with me. You can imagine how he reacted to the news of his eldest son's plan."

John never thought he'd feel sorry for Mycroft Holmes. 

"They sent Mycroft away for treatment." Sherlock laughed bitterly. "I remember now, when he went away. I'd been told he was ill, but no more. And, to be frank, I was indifferent - I was ten, and there was nothing more boring than my brother's health. It had no bearing on my life... Not then, anyway."

"Why on earth would he want to put you through the same thing he had suffered?" John got out angrily. 

"In his own way, I suppose he wanted to protect me..." Sherlock made a dismissive noise. "I don't pretend to understand the way my brother's mind works."

"You said you'd persuaded him to change his mind?" 

Sherlock grinned smugly. "A small application of pressure at his weakest point."

John narrowed his eyes. "Blackmail."

"Blackmail is a disgusting practice, John. I merely stressed to Mycroft the futility of his efforts, with a little assistance from our mother."

John suspected there was more to it than that, but did not want to push. It was enough to know that the formidable force of Mycroft Holmes was no threat to them at present. John shook his head in disbelief. "I'm surprised he's even talking to you."

"I think he's quite impressed, actually," Sherlock said with a quirk of a smile. 

John let out a huff of breath. "I can still hardly believe this is real." He passed a hand over Sherlock's arm, before reaching up to touch his jaw. "That you're here."

"Where else would I be?" Sherlock rumbled, leaning into the touch. "I don't plan on leaving you ever again."

John swallowed hard, stunned by the declaration. "Good," he finally got out, cupping his hand over the back of Sherlock's neck and pulling him close. "Because I'd have to come after you. And I'm not up for running anymore."

Sherlock's breath ghosted over John's lips, his eyes heavy-lidded as they met John's. 

"We'll have you walking again in no time."

"Not psychosomatic this time," John murmured. "Can't trick my leg into working properly."

"I suppose we'll have to do it the old-fashioned way then. I've always wanted to observe recovery of this sort in close quarters."

John laughed and finally closed the distance between them, pressing delirious kisses to Sherlock's mouth. "You're a madman."

"So are you."

John giggled, but his mirth was soon swallowed down as Sherlock licked his way into John's mouth and John scrambled to pull him into his lap, both of them trying not to disturb his bad leg as Sherlock straddled him. It was bliss, after too long without, and John tugged at Sherlock's shirt until he could get his hands underneath and grab at bare skin. Sherlock shuddered at his touch and pushed closer, strong legs either side of John's as he cradled John's face in his hands and breathed life into him once more. 

Sitting in his sickbed with a damaged leg, kissing a mad genius while the world tore itself to pieces fifty miles away, John Watson felt invincible. He had no idea what was going to happen tomorrow, or the next day, or next week, or next month - but he was going to find out with Sherlock Holmes at his side. Even the British Government couldn't keep them apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will only be an epilogue to come after this - the end just sort of sprung up on me!


	19. Epilogue

_11 November 1918_

There was a knock at the door of their flat and John rolled over with a groan. 

"Tell them to go away," Sherlock rumbled beside him, throwing an arm across John's chest.

"That would still involve getting out of bed," John said with a smile, gently extricating himself from Sherlock's grip. He sat and retrieved his dressing gown, pulling it on. "It's probably only Mrs. Hudson anyway."

He grabbed his cane and levered himself to his feet, before heading out to the door. He opened it to find that it was indeed Mrs. Hudson on the other side. 

"Good morning," John said.

"Good morning, John," she said pleasantly. "I'm so sorry to bother you, but this telegram just came."

She held it out and John took it, eyes flicking over the address. "I'll see that Sherlock gets it."

"Lounging around in bed, is he?" Mrs. Hudson asked guilelessly, looking past John to the empty living room.

"Most likely," John answered a little uneasily. He suspected Mrs. Hudson had a very good idea of the nature of his and Sherlock's relationship, but to her credit, she never said anything - not even when they had begun locking the flat door several months ago.

Mrs. Hudson smiled and nodded meaningfully towards his leg. "How is it today?"

"Much the same."

"This bad weather makes my hip ache something awful. I have some soothers from the doctor, if you like."

"No, thank you," John said kindly. "Honestly, I hardly notice it anymore."

"Very well. I'll bring some food up shortly."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

She bustled away down the stairs and John slipped back to the bedroom, only to find that Sherlock had gone back to sleep. He was sprawled on his front, curled over towards John's side of the bed. John bent over the bed and passed a hand over Sherlock's bare shoulder. 

"You have a telegram."

Sherlock grunted. "You read it."

John rolled his eyes and opened the telegram, scanning over the short message.

"Dear Lord, it's finally happened."

"What is it?" Sherlock mumbled, peering up from under his ruffled hair. 

John sat on the edge of the bed. "The war is over."

Sherlock held a hand out for the message - from Mycroft, no less - and John passed it over. He could hardly believe this day had finally come, that there would finally be an end to the suffering and loss. 

John had been given a medical discharge following his injury back in March, but the guilt of leaving his men behind had never really gone away. He had read every piece of news about the war's progress with trepidation, and had got into more than one argument with Sherlock, who simply couldn't understand why John felt bad about the men still at the Front. As Sherlock saw it, they had both had a lucky escape - John with his discharge, and Sherlock by being enlisted into a desk job in London (a sure sign of Mycroft's involvement). 

"Don't worry," Sherlock said, throwing the telegram onto a side table and shuffling closer, winding one arm around John's waist as he pressed up against his back. "Mycroft will start another war somewhere else in no time."

"That's not as reassuring as you think it is."

Sherlock snorted and placed an open-mouthed kiss on the back of John's neck. "Stop worrying and come back to bed."

Sherlock slid his hand under John's dressing gown, his hand warm through the thin layer of John's pyjamas. John leaned back against him, eyes fluttering as Sherlock nuzzled against his neck. "Mrs. Hudson will be up with breakfast soon."

"I don't care."

"Yes, you do," John said, forcing some firmness into his tone. "Because I do."

Sherlock let out an exaggerated sigh, but he released John without a fight as John sat forward. 

"We'll just have to celebrate later," Sherlock said in a dangerously low voice. 

John closed his eyes, willing certain treacherous parts of him into submission. He grabbed a pillow from the bed and threw it at Sherlock. "Get dressed."

*

For all its historic importance, the day passed like any other, with hardly anything to distinguish it from the day before. Sherlock fiddled with an experiment, and John sat scribbling away at a draft of his book - a compilation of the stories about Sherlock's adventures. Sherlock had sniffed when the idea was first mooted, but had complained very little, or at least very little by Sherlock's standards: John had a whole pile of papers with Sherlock's corrections.

The sky was just starting to turn dark when the doorbell rang downstairs. John and Sherlock shared a look across the room as they heard the door open and the vague murmur of Mrs. Hudson's voice drifting up the stairs.

Sherlock's look turned to one of interest, then settled into something blander, as they heard two sets of footsteps on the stairs. John rose to his feet just as Mrs. Hudson tapped on the open door and ushered Inspector Lestrade inside. 

"Visitor," Mrs. Hudson sing-songed, before turning back to Lestrade. "I'll leave you to it, Inspector."

Lestrade stepped forward to shake John's hand. "Watson."

"Lestrade."

"What it is, Lestrade?" Sherlock called out from the other side of the room, affecting a bored tone. "Surely no-one has been committing crime on this most sacred of days."

"I wish it were true."

Sherlock perked up, turning towards them with carefully-subdued interest. "Oh?"

"A man was found dead at the War Office this morning."

"How appropriate," Sherlock murmured with humour. John gave him a pointed look, and he schooled his expression.

"He didn't work at the War Office though," Lestrade continued, unperturbed. "No-one knows who he is."

John could almost see Sherlock's level of interest increasing as Lestrade spoke, and Sherlock soon got to his feet. "Have you moved the body?"

"We had to. He was in the Secretary's office."

"How interesting. I'll need to see the office, of course." Sherlock was already crossing the room to pull on his coat, giving John a meaningful look as he did so. "And the body. And I'll need to talk to the Secretary's staff."

Lestrade nodded, a look of relief on his face. "Thank you. I'll make arrangements and meet you at the office."

Sherlock nodded and Lestrade ducked out of the room.

"It's like Christmas!" Sherlock exclaimed, pulling on his scarf as John shrugged into his own coat. John let out a snort of laughter that was quickly silenced as Sherlock swooped in and kissed him, hands cupping John's face. 

"Don't think I've forgotten about our celebration," he whispered as he pulled away.

John let out a huff of breath. "I should hope not."

"Simply postponed," Sherlock said, moving away towards the door as John picked up his cane and hurried after him. "Come on, John."

*

"You were absolutely brilliant today," John murmured, smoothing his thumb over Sherlock's lower lip. Sherlock's tongue darted out and passed over his skin, and John drew him back into a hungry kiss, hands running down his bare back. 

Sherlock's hands went to the fastenings of John's trousers, undoing them and shoving at them impatiently. John broke the kiss and fell back on the bed as Sherlock shuffled back far enough to pull the trousers and undergarments off and deposit them on the floor. John wriggled out of his vest as Sherlock's attention turned to his own trousers, removing them in short order and sending them to join John's on the floor. 

"Get back here," John urged, and Sherlock crawled over him with a predatory look. John caught him with one hand at the back of his neck, one hand on his waist, drawing him in close. "You are so beautiful."

"John."

"And the way your mind works," John breathed, pressing his lips to the bottom of Sherlock's jaw. "Astounding. I would never have thought to blame the brother."

"Obvious," Sherlock got out, sliding against John's erection distractingly. John moaned and dragged him down for a kiss, tongues sliding together as Sherlock rolled his hips, skin dragging against skin in a dance they had long since perfected. 

John broke their kiss but stayed close, their mouths brushing. "Get the Vaseline now."

Sherlock smirked against John's lips, but pulled away and leaned over to retrieve the small tin from the bedside table. He placed it in John's hands, then ducked down to suck at John's neck, doing his best to distract him. John groaned but managed to unscrew the lid and smear his fingers through the ointment.

He nudged at Sherlock's side until he shifted up, then let his hand trail down to Sherlock's hole in a light touch that made Sherlock squirm. He circled it several times, until Sherlock let out a choked noise along with John's name, and then slid one finger inside. 

Sherlock let out a low moan, arching into John's finger as his mouth found John's again. John started a slow movement, in and out, before sliding in a second finger along with the first. Sherlock gasped, breaking the kiss.

"John."

He looked wrecked already and John traced his free hand over Sherlock's cheek. 

"Shhh. I have you."

Sherlock rocked helplessly against John's fingers, his eyelids fluttering with pleasure. 

"I wonder if I could pleasure you just like this."

Sherlock made an indeterminate noise, and John pressed his thumb to Sherlock's plush lower lip again. Sherlock took the whole thing into his mouth, sucking hard, peering out beneath his eyelashes at John. It was enough to shatter the last of John's control. 

John drew his hand away and reached out for the tin once more, fumbling one-handed before hurriedly smoothing some over his aching cock. Sherlock hadn't stopped his relentless rocking on John's fingers, but he now pulled up, letting John slip his fingers free. Before John could even move, Sherlock took hold of his cock and slid down onto it. 

John threw his head back and let out a groan. It was almost too much, and he took several controlled breaths, his eyes screwed shut. As soon as he dared to open them again, Sherlock started to move, rising up and impaling himself on John. He was an absolute vision.

"God, look at you."

John wrapped both hands around Sherlock's hips, dragging him back down as he thrust upwards. Sherlock let out a cry, and his hand went to his own cock. "John."

"You're amazing."

Sherlock started pumping his cock in time with John's thrusts, his head thrown back.

"You're brilliant."

"John," Sherlock gasped, pumping harder.

"Beautiful."

Sherlock was bouncing with him now, throwing himself down on John's cock. 

"The bravest man I've ever known... And the wisest."

"John."

John could see that Sherlock was on the verge of falling apart and he sat up, pulling him into a kiss. 

"I love you," he got out, just as Sherlock let out a cry, his body seizing around John and pulling him over the edge. "I love you."

They collapsed to the bed and Sherlock rolled onto his back, breathing heavily.

"Lord," John gasped. "I'm far too old for this."

Sherlock snorted, but he rolled onto his side, his hand coming to rest on John's chest. "I love you too, John," he said quietly. 

John smiled and Sherlock dropped back down, his head on John's shoulder. John passed a hand over his back, resting his head against Sherlock's. He still couldn't believe his luck, and he didn't think he'd ever get used to hearing Sherlock declare his affections.

"Stop thinking," Sherlock said, his breath warm against John's skin. "I've obviously not tired you sufficiently."

John laughed. "Oh, I think you have for one evening. I've been dragged around half of London."

"Exaggeration," Sherlock mumbled, before his tone took on a pleased note. "At least there should be plenty more cases now the war is over and everyone can go back to hating each other instead of hating the Germans."

"Sherlock," John admonished with a laugh. 

"I bet you two shillings we'll have another case within the week."

"Two shillings? What a measly offer."

Sherlock turned his head and met John's eyes. "Very well, Captain," he said in a silky tone. "What would you have me offer?"

"I'm sure we can find something to both our liking, Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir," Sherlock returned, before sliding down to press a kiss to John's hips. "I'm sure we can, sir."

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's over! Thank you so much to all of you for reading, and for sticking with me - even through a hiatus in the middle. I have been overwhelmed by the response to this story, and I hope to hear from some of you again in the future.


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